


King's Gambit

by manic_intent



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archon!Dorian, Black Divine!Cullen, M/M, NOTE: MOST OF THIS FIC IS T-RATED, Some handwave for the sake of premise, Sort of dark!Cullen, That AU where Dorian is the Archon and Cullen is the Black Divine, yes... I gave in and wrote it...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-10 08:10:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3283181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A party was never quite a proper party in Tevinter until there was at least one assassination attempt, and the novelty in the attempt at Magister Caius’ party lay not quite in its actual occurrence but in the ambition of its assassin. </p><p>At the height of Caius’ decidedly juvenile lyrium-laced drinking game, during the start of dinner, Magister Fabiana made a sudden gesture close to the Divine, all the while leaning closer, as if to say something private. Divine Leonthius' hand snapped up, viper-quick, grabbing Fabiana’s hand high on the wrist. She rose from her seat, fright and outrage both in her eyes, fire stealing hot up from her trapped wrist before it was abruptly… <i>gone</i>. </p><p>Shock froze Fabiana’s snarl in her throat, even as, with a gentle, almost intimate economy, Leonthius pulled Fabiana towards him and shoved a dagger up through her ribcage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a prompt for Black Divine!Cullen x Archon!Dorian and thought I exorcised the idea by writing that silly fail!roleplay fic. Unfortunately the idea kept coming back… and back… and… I know writing it is going to be asking for pain, because I love making shiet up and I don’t like reading books that tie in to games. Or: Wiki will be my only source of info… 
> 
> Note: It looks like the Black Divine is usually also a mage. In this fic, Cullen is not a mage… and I will probably handwave a lot of the usual details.
> 
>  **TLDR** : I AM MAKING MOST OF THIS UP.

I.

A party was never quite a proper party in Tevinter until there was at least one assassination attempt, and the novelty in the attempt at Magister Caius’ party lay not quite in its actual occurrence but in the ambition of its assassin.

At the height of Caius’ decidedly juvenile lyrium-laced drinking game, during the start of dinner, Magister Fabiana made a sudden gesture close to the Divine, all the while leaning closer, as if to say something private. Divine Leonthius’ hand snapped up, viper-quick, grabbing Fabiana’s hand high on the wrist. She rose from her seat, fright and outrage both in her eyes, fire stealing hot up from her trapped wrist before it was abruptly… _gone_. 

Shock froze Fabiana’s snarl in her throat, even as, with a gentle, almost intimate economy, Leonthius pulled Fabiana towards him and shoved a dagger up through her ribcage. 

He settled her gurgling, twitching body back in its seat, blood foaming out around the hilt of the knife over Fabiana’s brilliant sapphire-blue gown, and as though the Divine had done nothing more than discuss the weather, he continued to eat his soup, even through the sudden silence that rippled out over the long table. 

Seated opposite Leonthius, Archon Dorian studied Fabiana’s death throes, morbidly amused, despite himself. So the reports had been true, after all. At his right hand, Caius shot Dorian a faintly beseeching stare, and Dorian arched an eyebrow for a moment before saying, “Magister Fabiana seems to have grown a little faint. Perhaps we could prevail on Magister Caius’ staff to escort her to a guest room?”

Caius stiffened, even as Leonthius’ spoon paused briefly enroute from the bowl to his mouth. The faint, sharp smile that flit over the new Divine’s lush mouth was so quick that for a moment, Dorian was sure that he had imagined it: Leonthius didn’t even glance up when Caius’ slaves hastened over at their master’s gesture to carry the bloody corpse out of the dining room, others scrubbing at the blood spatter. In what felt like a matter of moments, with even Fabiana’s place at the table swept away, it was as though the magister was never there.

Which was as it should be. Outright war declared while only the starters had been served? How _uncouth_. 

The rest of the dinner party was somewhat subdued, the dessert positively rushed, and Dorian was mildly disappointed. He had thought Caius an old hand at Tevinter politics, not quite one to be fazed by something as commonplace as a botched assassination.

Unless… 

Curious now, Dorian made a mental note to have one of his little birds recheck Caius’ circle of friends and acquaintances, and slipped out of the soiree when Leonthius made his leave, following the Divine out of Caius’ summer villa. A human slave had led Leonthius’ destrier out of a stall to the courtyard, the normally spirited animal meek and quiet, and even as Leonthius hesitated, sensing something amiss, Dorian drawled, from behind him, “Allow me.”

“Archon,” Leonthius greeted Dorian with surprise, but Dorian ignored him, walking straight over to the horse. The slave did not look up at his approach, and Dorian studied her for a moment before he sighed, and with a gesture, drew all ambient magical energy into his own signature, leashing it to form a barrier, just in case. 

Horse and slave both collapsed heavily, as the trap-wards upon them broke, having been leashed and written in place by their life-energy, the backlash washing off his barrier, discharging harmlessly into the ground. Behind him, Leonthius swore harshly under his breath, then exhaled irritably.

Dorian caught Leonthius’ gauntlet-clad wrist as the man began to head back towards the villa. “Not tired of the party after all, Divine Leonthius?”

“I was thinking of dragging Caius out here and shaking the worth of my Cyrus out of his Maker-damned hide, actually,” Leonthius retorted bluntly. “By your _leave_ , Archon.”

“My dear man,” Dorian said dryly, “If you had to wet your blade with every single person who might have possibly meant you ill, Tevinter would be a very quiet place indeed. At this point in time, in any regard.”

Leonthius narrowed his eyes. Even in the mage-light of the courtyard, a silvery moon-like hue that was currently fashionable in Tevinter, Leonthius still looked like his name incarnate: golden-haired, with a strong jaw, comely and broad-shouldered. The new Divine looked like a lion made flesh, more so now that he decided to smile, all lazy catlike mischief, a gorgeous smirk that went beautifully with the ruthlessness in his gaze. 

The new Divine was somewhat of a mystery. He was not only the first man not of Tevinter blood to be named Divine, he was also, perhaps more strangely, not a mage at all. The Maker only knew what the Imperial Chantry had been thinking, when they had elected to make the then-Commander of the Imperial Templar Order the new Divine: speculation had ignited Tevinter with gossip, and not even Dorian’s little birds had managed to prise out the Chantry’s secrets in this regard. 

Still, whatever they _had_ been thinking, at least Divine Leonthius was pretty as a picture, even in his rather forbiddingly… _spiky_ set of black-enamelled full plate armour and mail and the thick black pelt of some unlucky animal that rode over his shoulders in lieu of a cloak. He wore the Divine’s heavy gold chain of office over his chestplate, but the rest of his armour was not in the least decorated, none of the gold and silver filigree so beloved by Tevinter fashion of late. But for the gold chain and the obviously finely-made blade that hung by Leonthius’ hip, the new Divine would have looked like any other Tevinter soldier.

“So then,” Leonthius said dryly, breaking into Dorian’s perhaps too obvious appreciation. “What do you suggest?”

“I’m beginning to grow a little curious about our friend Magister Caius. Let me satisfy that for a while, and then we will see.”

“‘Satisfy’,” Leonthius repeated, amused. “You and your spies.”

Dorian’s eyebrows arched. “You are so _very_ bluntly spoken. Rather like talking to a hammer. It’s… strangely refreshing. But yes, if we do have to be crude. My ‘spies’.”

Leonthius nodded curtly. “If you wish. Have a good night, Archon.” 

The Divine took a step towards the gates, and surprised, Dorian asked, “You’re going to… _walk_ back to the Argent Spire?” 

“… Yes?” Leonthius noted, with studied patience.

“One assassination within the night isn’t enough for you?”

“I could do with the exercise.” Leonthius smirked, again that gorgeous leonine smile, and Dorian bit down on a sigh. Well. It wasn’t as though he _did_ go very far at all to hide his weaknesses.

“Perhaps I could offer you a lift.” 

Leonthius studied Dorian for a moment, then he shrugged, all jingling armour. “Fine.” 

Dorian swallowed his instinctive ire at Leonthius’ ungraceful acquiescence, motioning for one of his personal guard to prepare his carriage. He had not, until recently, had any time at all to speak to the new Divine in an unofficial capacity, and it was only now that Dorian realized what an oversight that might have been.

II.

Leonthius was silent and reserved, keeping his hands loose on his knees and his booted feet flat on the ground as the carriage made its way through the boulevards of Minrathous. When they passed the Grand Proving Arena, the tiers of gardens lit up with sapphire and amber magelights in the night, Leonthius turned to look out of the carriage window, though he still kept his silence.

“Nothing like that in Ferelden, I presume?” Dorian guessed, and Leonthius glanced at him sharply. 

Instead of the retort that Dorian was hoping for, however, Leonthius nodded. “Nor anywhere else.” 

“Is it commonplace in Ferelden for heads of state to walk about without guards?” Dorian inquired innocently, undeterred. 

This time, Leonthius smiled thinly. “Depends on the man - or woman - in question.” 

“I should mention,” Dorian said lightly, “That it’s a rather _unusual_ practice in Tevinter for anyone remotely important _not_ to be followed about by _scads_ of retainers. Rather like walking about without your shirt on, perhaps.” 

Leonthius snorted. “Not interested.”

“Without your armour on, in your case.” Dorian corrected, a little nettled by Leonthius’ blithe disinterest in his personal security.

“I never take my armour off,” Leonthius said, with a perfectly straight face, and when Dorian blinked, Leonthius held his blank look for a moment longer before he smirked again and looked back out of the window. 

Giving that topic up as a bad job, Dorian said blithely, “Perhaps you don’t. You do seem to be always on guard. Your… response to Fabiana was so immediate.”

“She’s been twitching to do something all evening,” Leonthius said, without looking back at Dorian. “It was obvious in how she was walking and talking. Tensed up. Forced smiles. Sweating a little under that gown. Wish she tried something _before_ that dinner so I could’ve left early and be done with it.” 

“What you _did_ to her, however,” Dorian said, keeping his tone idle. “You shut down her magic.”

This time, Leonthius looked back, his eyes narrowed. “Imperial Templars can’t do anything of the sort.”

“Clearly you’re no ordinary Templar. Going from being one of the Chantry’s dogs to the leader of the pack? That’s impressive.”

“I’ve been blessed." 

“And also,” Dorian added sharply, dropping his playfulness, “ _Most_ of the Imperial Templar Order would not even be _aware_ of the existence of such a practice.”

“It’s common knowledge outside Tevinter, where I was born.” Leonthius said smoothly enough, though the suspicion remained in his eyes. 

“If I saw it, Caius saw it as well.”

“Saw what?”

Dorian sighed. “Come now, ‘Most Holy’. In the game we play here in Tevinter, it’s bad manners when you lose points with ill grace.”

“Given what you suspect,” Leonthius said flatly, “I’m surprised that you got into the carriage with me, then.”

“Oh,” Dorian steepled his fingers before him, leaning back in his cushioned seat, “I don’t think that you’re an enemy of mine. Not yet, in any regard.” 

“‘Not yet’? Do you expect some sort of outbreak of hostilities in due course?”

“I hope not,” Dorian said, with exaggerated disdain. “I always find it _so_ distressing whenever I have to arrange for handsome men to disappear. It’s such a _waste_.”

Leonthius rolled his eyes, again with that brash and open disrespect. This time, irritation warred quietly with amusement, and the latter won out. The new Divine, in Dorian’s opinion, was very unlikely to last the month, let alone live long enough to fulfil whatever madcap reason for existence had propelled him onto the Argent Throne.

Maker. It would be _such_ a damned waste.

“I could probably kill you right now if I wanted to,” Leonthius said conversationally. “It would be easy.” 

It took all of Dorian’s self-control not to tense up and rise to Leonthius’ bait. “You won’t survive the attempt.”

“It wouldn’t be an _attempt_ ,” Leonthius corrected, with a sharp smile. “But yes, I probably wouldn’t survive the consequences. Still,” he added, with a tilt of his head, “You’re right. At present, you’re not my enemy. And I hope it stays that way.”

“You have such a _refreshing_ way of declaring allegiances.” Dorian marvelled archly. “I simply _must_ teach it to all my diplomats. It’ll make the Senate so much more _exciting_. Maybe you should hold classes.” 

“Daggers in front rather than behind your backs?” Leonthius asked bluntly. “Maybe. You should watch yours,” he added, when Dorian sniffed. “There’s a canker growing in the ranks of the Chantry that’s quite likely spread everywhere else, even in among the Altus. It’s certainly touched the magisters.”

“The Chantry is _that_ concerned about the Venatori?”

“You know that we are,” Leonthius retorted. “Your ‘little birds’ are everywhere.” At Dorian’s faint surprise upon hearing the use of his favourite pet term, Leonthius smirked. “We have ears of our own, Archon.” 

“Perhaps concerned enough,” Dorian mused out aloud, “To elect a non-mage to the Argent Throne for the first time?”

“Perhaps,” Leonthius said, his tone neutral. “We’re looking to our own. Watch your own people.” 

“Says the man who nearly mounted a trap-warded horse tonight.”

Leonthius grunted, irritated again. “Bloody bastards. I liked that horse.” 

“Pity about the girl too, eh?” Dorian asked pointedly, and Leonthius shot him a guarded look. 

“What does the Archon care about a slave?”

“Why does the Archon care about anything at all?” Dorian countered, and when Leonthius said nothing, he added, “I would wager a destrier that your split second decision to barge back into the party to murder your host was based more on the death of that girl than your horse.”

Leonthius was silent for a long moment, then he shrugged, and looked away. “Blood magic is forbidden. Technically,” he added, a little bitterly. 

“We do love our technicalities.” 

“You don’t practice it,” Leonthius said matter-of-factly.

“Oh? You can tell?” 

“So I’ve _heard_ ,” Leonthius corrected, and grimacing, Dorian made a mental note to sweep his own household again for Chantry spies. “It’s how I know that you’re not my enemy.” 

“A mage doesn’t need to practice forbidden magic to be dangerous,” Dorian pointed out, irritated.

“I know that. I meant that you’re not the sort of mage that the Order is very much concerned with.” 

“The Order,” Dorian said mildly, “Is really the Circles' private militia, _serah_.” The unfamiliar mode of address sat heavily on his tongue, but it did make Leonthius flinch slightly, as though in guilty recognition. “Whatever you might think.”

“Not anymore,” Leonthius said curtly, and smiled his leonine smile when Dorian narrowed his eyes.

III.

“Prior to being named Divine Leonthius,” Felix began his report briskly as Dorian settled down behind his desk, propping his boots up on the antique sandalwood, “The Most Holy was known as Cullen Stanton Rutherford, born in Honnleath in the Arling of Redcliffe in Ferelden. Joined the, ah, Southerner Templar Order in Kinloch Hold, but left prior to the Blight, reasons unexplained. Surfaced in Tevinter, joining the Imperial Templar Order, where he rose quickly in the ranks to become the Knight-Commander. Served as Knight-Commander for a year before being elected recently to the role of Divine.”

“There are _so_ many gaping holes in that report, Felix,” Dorian closed his eyes, steepling his fingers again. 

“Yes, well,” Felix retorted, unperturbed, “I did _only_ have _all the notice_ of ten minutes, give or take. ‘Tell me about the new Divine, Felix. Right now, if you please.’ Why, yes of course, Archon, I live to please, even if the report was insufficient, given the _short notice_.”

“Why haven’t your various… friends… found out more about the man? It’s been a month!” 

“Because the Chantry’s started one of their spring cleans, and weeded out our best moles,” Felix shrugged. “We countered by weeding out their moles, and so on. It’s a constant battle of attrition. Very sad. Sort of like a high-stakes game of pull-the-pigtail.”

Dorian glanced at Felix sourly. As the Left Hand of the Archon, Felix was, by default, Dorian’s spymaster, and although his childhood friend had risen to the role with as much aplomb as he treated life in general, a lifelong friendship had been instrumental in ensuring that Felix did _not_ usually treat their current roles with anything near the appropriate measure of respect or seriousness.

“Well, find out more about him,” Dorian groused. “Something’s going on in the Argent Spire. I need to know what.”

“Could the Archon be perhaps more specific?” Felix inquired. “All manner of things ‘go on’ in the Argent Spire, shall we say. Templar training, praying, perhaps some actual spring cleaning, more praying-“

“The Venatori,” Dorian interrupted, a trifle irritably. “The Chantry are worried about the Venatori. Perhaps enough to elect this outsider non-mage to the Argent Throne. Find out why they’re so worried.”

“Perhaps there are Venatori in the Enchanter ranks.”

“There are _obviously_ Venatori in the ranks. I want to know how _many_.” 

“Do you want me to arrange for them to have… stairwell accidents?”

“No,” Dorian decided, leaning back further in his chair. “The Chantry can ask for aid, if they want it. After all, the new Divine is so _very_ self-confident. I can’t wait to see it all explode in his face.”

“Pity,” Felix observed. “He’s very pretty.” Felix smirked when Dorian affected exasperation. “Of course you noticed. I would wager that it’s the _only_ thing you noticed about the man, up until dear Caius’ ill-fated birthday party. Maybe that was their play all along. Elect the prettiest person in the Chantry to the Throne, such that the Archon spends a month doing little more than stare at his fine arse during official events.”

“I did _not_ ,” Dorian said, offended. Felix arched his eyebrows, and after a moment, Dorian sighed. “All right. Maybe a little.”

“Hah!”

“That _aside_ ,” Dorian said pointedly. “The Imperial Chantry hasn’t usually concerned themselves with the Venatori problem. So find out what’s ruffled all their feathers up in the Spire. And have Caius investigated. The roast goose he served up was quite dreadful. Someone needs to hang for that travesty.”

“Investigate Magister Caius… investigate the Divine… investigate the Chantry… Anything else? How about the Senate as well, and perhaps the entirety of the Altus class?”

“Just get to work,” Dorian flapped his hands at Felix, and Felix bowed with mock obsequiousness before letting himself out of Dorian’s office. 

Dorian rocked back on his chair for a moment, then he exhaled and settled down, getting to his feet. circled away from the desk, padding out towards the balcony of the Dragon’s Roost, resting his palms on the grooved balustrade, looking up into the sky over his city, the view banked to his left by the Nocen Sea. His _country_ -

The clear blue sky abruptly turned a roiling gray, clouding over for as far as Dorian could see, and pure arcane _energy_ in a sickly greenish hue rippled outwards, like the leading wave to a storm, the tide of a shockwave that sped out in an ever-widening arc over the sea.

What in the Maker’s name…? 

Dorian was still squinting futilely into the distance when Felix made his reappearance, out of breath and leaning to catch it, hands on his knees. “Did you see that?” 

“What _was_ it?”

“Nothing natural, that’s for sure,” Felix strode over to his side, frowning up at the sky. “And whatever it was, it came from the south.”

“If that was the aftereffects of some sort of spell…” Dorian’s tone trailed off uncomfortably. He couldn’t imagine the magnitude of a spell that would give off an arcane aftershock of that scale, let alone what such a spell could be _for_. “Send out ravens. If whoever cast that spell is in Tevinter, I want to know who it was, and what it was for.”

“‘In Tevinter’?” Felix repeated. “Where else could something like that have come from? I bet it’s those Maker-damned ‘experimental thaumaturgists’ over in Vol Dorma again.”

“I hope you’re right,” Dorian said carefully. If a spell like that had originated from _outside_ Tevinter… “Maker, I hope you are.”


	2. Chapter 2

I.

The College of Alchemy at Vol Dorma was the heart of the city, and the only thing within Vol Dorma that gave it any sort of relevance at all, in Dorian’s opinion. It was a vast, sprawling complex of spires and laboratories of varying sizes and design, combining to create a spiderweb of clashing constructs right out of an architect’s nightmare, squatting over enormous, gorgeously trimmed lawns and hedges.

His lady wife, apparently, thought it ‘charming’, if in a ‘quaint’ way, and had taken to visiting Vol Dorma whenever she chose to take a sabbatical from Minrathous. Dorian found her holding Court in the Ivory Pavilion, surrounded by a handful of Enchanters, varying sycophants, and a smattering of impressionable young Altus-class scions, engaged in a little wine and cheese party, by the looks of it, everyone mostly young, fashionable, and charmed. As he approached, there was a sudden hush, then a flurry of whispers, as everyone rose respectfully to their feet. 

She waved them all away instantly, with polite little apologies, and they bowed as they scattered, darting often openly curious glances between Dorian and Felix. Once alone, Dorian settled down in a vacated bench at the pavilion, helping himself to an untouched glass of wine, but Felix, ever the gentleman, executed a graceful bow.

“Lady Vivienne.” 

“Felix, my dear,” Vivienne’s smile was catlike in a way that Leonthius’ wasn’t: while his was confidence and ruthlessness, hers was calculation and cunning and steel. “Do have a seat. What brings you and my darling _husband_ to Vol Dorma?”

“You probably do know,” Dorian suggested. “ _We_ saw the shockwave from _Minrathous_.”

“Ah, yes.” Vivienne frowned, very slightly. Her skin, darker than even his, was accentuated, as always, in a beautiful creamy gown, partly in the Tevinter style, partly in the Orlesian style, with a crowning, horned hat draped with gold chains and rubies. “From the South it came. I still have no idea what it might have been. How strange it was!”

“It was not from Vol Dorma, then,” Felix said, resigned. “I guess that would’ve been too easy.”

“No. I’ve sent enquiries out to friends in the Orlesian Court, who might be able to shed some light on the mystery. I’m still awaiting their response.” Vivienne picked up a peeled grape from the bowl, and ate it thoughtfully. “Personally, I very much doubt that a spell of such a scale was even… crafted by mages alone. Perhaps they had help. Either from demons, or an artefact of some sort-”

Dorian groaned. “The South’s been embroiled in their ‘mage uprising’ for _years_. Perhaps all the mages got together and did something? Does it always _have_ to be blood magic and artefacts that people should’ve left alone?” 

“A spell of this magnitude,” Vivienne said, a little reproachfully, “Would require a great deal of lyrium, and possibly a great deal of blood magic, and I can’t imagine what such a spell would be for - even if the mages got their hands on the lyrium _and_ had the power.” 

“I don’t know,” Dorian said casually, “Wipe Val Royeaux off the map, perhaps? I heard that the mage rebellion doesn’t like that place very much.” 

Vivienne shuddered delicately. “I should hope not.” 

“But if it wasn’t just crafted by mages alone,” Felix piped up, “Then what _was_ it? Even the Qunari are concerned. They’ve withdrawn to their strongholds in Seheron, by all reports.”

“Bit of a silver lining there.” Dorian agreed. “I swear. That island is a bloody waste of time - quite literally - and if I could, I would say, let the Qunari have the blasted place and be done with it.”

Vivienne sighed. “Don’t let the Senate hear you say that. Your foreign policy credentials are shaky enough as it is, my dear.”

“Foreign policy is under the purvey of the Right Hand, isn’t it?” Dorian smirked over the table. 

Vivienne didn’t even bother to respond to the quip. “You’ve already given the Senate rather too _many_ shocks to the system of late. Go too far and… well. You do know your history.”

“You’d think that the Senate would be used to Dorian by now,” Felix said, with archly feigned surprise. “Marrying a foreigner mage… with no relation to any Altus family… and then naming her to the position of Right Hand… then engaging in peace talks with the newest Arishok…” 

“Yes, thank you, Felix, for that rather succinct summation of the last few years of my life,” Dorian grumbled. “Also, we _tried_ to engage in peace talks. They returned our ambassador in several pieces, remember?”

“Well, at least they returned him this time.”

“All this reminiscing is so very charming,” Vivienne said briskly, “But I’m sure that we’re all rather too busy for it. I’ve set the best minds in Vol Dorma to studying the shockwave: they’re debating the possible origin of such an aftermath even as we speak.”

“And we all know how so _very_ useful such debates can be.” 

“Even in Tevinter, _darling_ , information is king,” Vivienne noted, reproachful again. “It’ll be good to have at least a handful of key facts about the phenomenon before I return to Minrathous and do the rounds. How was the party at Caius’?” 

“Dreadful. Middling wine, silly drinking games, awful main course… if not for the assassination attempt on the Divine, I would have tried to drown myself in the soup.” Dorian yawned.

“Mm. The assassin. Who was it? Laetia?”

“Fabiana, actually. Laetia’s rather more of a suspicious-architectural-collapse sort of mastermind.” Felix pointed out. “She doesn’t like to get her hands too dirty.”

“Fabiana tried something? Right in front of everyone?” Vivienne shook her head slowly, rubies tinkling against chains. “How uncouth. Sometimes I despair of the magisters and their understanding of the concept of subtlety.” 

“I know. Such a scandal,” Dorian agreed facetiously. “What happened to trap-warding someone’s horse to blow up in a spectacularly gruesome manner? Which almost happened afterwards as well, I should add. It nearly worked, too.”

“Hm. Now _that_ sounds more like something Juno would do. The Divine countered both attempts? Impressive.”

“He stabbed Fabiana in front of everyone,” Dorian recalled. “Blood all over the table, a little upsetting, but a highlight to an otherwise stultifying dinner, admittedly. I dispelled the trap-ward.”

“You?” Vivienne’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Why in the Maker’s name did you intervene?”

“Because the Divine has a nice arse,” Felix said dryly, even as Dorian said, “Because the new Divine could turn out to be a decent ally.” He glowered at Felix, who smiled innocently. 

“You really should restrain yourself from acts of charity,” Vivienne observed, “ _Particularly_ those that make you assume a political stand that we haven’t entirely thought through. The new Divine is _hardly_ popular. Aiding him will erode some of your credit in the Senate.”

“We have something in common then. Being ‘hardly popular’.”

Vivienne sniffed. “Divine Leonthius is not a mage. He’s obviously not even from Tevinter. He’s not even high born. From what I heard, he’s more of a warrior than a politician, a brute of a man for whom every problem is a nail to be hammered. He won’t last long, and in his demise, he _might_ pull down his ‘allies’.” 

“Well yes-“

“While _you_ , my dear,” Vivienne added, “Are from one of the most powerful and wealthy Altus families; you were elected by the Senate nearly unanimously-“

“-through various applications of bribes and such-“ Dorian quipped.

“-and despite your efforts, thanks to Felix and myself, you do have some _reasonably_ positive standing in Court so far. Or you did, until your little byplay with the Divine.” Vivienne frowned at Felix. “Haven’t we discussed this, Felix? How to prevent Dorian from wasting _our_ efforts?”

“He goes to these parties without me,” Felix said defensively. “Don’t worry. The little birds told me that the current word on the street is that the Divine dispelled the trap-wards himself.”

“It would have been bad manners to let the man walk back to the Argent Spire,” Dorian added, but Vivienne pursed her lips. 

“Perhaps this can be spun in a better light.”

“The Divine is one of the key powers in Tevinter, _my dear_ ,” Dorian said dryly, “Whether it’s ceremonial or not always remains to be seen. I’d rather not treat him as an enemy until we have to.”

“Yes, of course. With an ordinary Divine, certainly. But this one…” Vivienne tapped her fingers lightly against the crystal of her wine glass, and took a sip. “I’ll have to think about it. But you should be careful around him,” she added. “He was once a templar in Ferelden. Some habits likely die hard.”

“He tried to deny being able to perform a spell purge. Even though everyone at our end of the table must have seen it.” Dorian glanced at Felix. “Still no word on whether he’s been taking lyrium?”

“Like I mentioned,” Felix said patiently. “Chantry. Spring cleaning. No more moles. Remember?”

“As far as _I’ve_ heard, from _my_ friends in the Spire,” Vivienne said mildly, “The new Divine does not take lyrium.” 

“He has to. How else can he perform purges?” Dorian asked.

“There’s a… discipline of Templars, known as the Seekers, who have Templar abilities but take no lyrium. Whether it’s through discipline or some sort of natural development, I’m still trying to find out,” Vivienne explained. “Regardless, it appears that lyrium is not necessarily key to being a templar.” 

“What was it like in Rivain?” Felix asked. 

“In Rivain? The templars operated more or less like those here,” Vivienne lifted a shoulder into a light shrug. “Mages who develop Seer abilities are revered. Others, not as much. Partly why I chose to travel to Tevinter instead.” 

“That and the fashion scene here is _far_ better,” Dorian noted. 

“Lucky that your parents didn’t decide to make you grow up in Wycome,” Felix said idly, and smirked when Vivienne’s expression froze a little. Dorian hid his grin. His Left and Right Hands had been engaged in this little information war for over two years to date, with variable success on either side. Ferreting out Vivienne’s place of birth was a minor triumph for Felix, admittedly. 

“Imagine having to live in a Circle like Kinloch. Or Kirkwall’s.” Dorian grinned. 

“Or Monstimmard,” Vivienne said mildly, “A place of refinement, _culture_ and the arts. But _yes_ , darling. A gilded cage with no power at all is still a cage. Now, will you be tarrying in Vol Dorma?”

“Only a day or so. I’m always concerned that Minrathous will catch fire if I’m not there. Or overthrow me. Not sure what will be worse, actually.” 

“Good,” Vivienne said briskly. “There’s a soiree tonight that I’ve been invited to, by Magister Zaldereon. He’ll be _delighted_ if you could attend. And then there’s a little reception tomorrow in the Silver Falls, a little of a curiosity, actually, held by a deshyr of the dwarven Merchant’s Guild-“

Dorian held up a hand. “Do I really have to?”

Vivienne pursed her lips in displeasure, and Felix hastily excused himself on some pretext, the coward, fleeing the scene. “Yes you do,” Vivienne said firmly, when they were alone. “As to your living arrangements when you are here…” 

Dorian shrugged. “If you have a lover, you know that I don’t care. I can stay elsewhere.”

“It staggers me how you can be so wilfully blind to appearances,” Vivienne said mildly. “Naturally you’ll have to share my chambers while you’re here, regardless of ‘open secrets’ and their like. My apartments are in the College itself, acceptably furnished. The Grand Library is close by - they’ve just acquired a new collection of antique journals, straight out of Weisshaupt. You might find them rather fascinating reading.”

“Glad to hear that there’s something actually fascinating in this place,” Dorian perked up. “I really don’t know why you like to come slumming here. Qarinus is very nice this time of year.” 

“Because, my dear,” Vivienne noted, a little wistfully, “Sometimes it’s… nice, to come to a place where us mages are only interested in the study and practice of magic for magic’s sake. Why, yesterday, Adeptus Cecilia managed to perform the opening overture to Faustin’s Dance of the Dragons with her adaptation of Force Magic. Quite fascinating.” 

“Really?” Dorian sat up a little. “Just Force Magic? No play off ambient surges?”

“She’s writing a paper on it that’s yet to be published, so she’s been cagey on the details,” Vivienne allowed, “But the way I see it-“

II.

The Imperial Observatory was a rather grand name for the spire that housed it and its collection of oculi of varying make. The crowning jewel, of course, was the Astrarium at the summit, made by the dwarves as a gift to the alchemists of Vol Dorma, hauled to the surface at great cost to one of Dorian’s predecessors, but he couldn’t say that it wasn’t worth it.

Aimed at the sky, the great lens of the astrarium in its shimmering dome was a beautifully lavish testament to Imperial ambition: not even the stars themselves were free from purview. Dorian ran a hand lightly over the brass casing of the viewport, then let himself down the raised dais to the main floor, where Felix was studying a miniature model of the tower set on a small plinth. 

“She’s late,” Dorian groused.

“Maybe your lady wife finally decided to become Archon herself. This might be a trap.” 

“That joke’s _only_ funny the first twenty times.” 

“It’s also possibly true at some point in the future.” 

Dorian rolled his eyes, even as Vivienne finally let herself through the door, striding towards them, tossing Felix a scroll of parchment. “My contacts in Val Royeaux have responded,” Vivienne said briskly. “It seems that the South’s gone completely insane.” 

Felix unrolled the scroll, scanning it, then he blinked. “Peace summit… attended by Chantry leaders, including Divine Justinia… mages and templars… everyone killed? A ‘Fade Rift’ opened? And this… who is this ‘Herald of Andraste’?” 

“Give me that.” Dorian grabbed the report from Felix. “Dearest Vivienne, warmest regards, etcetera… Fell deeds at the Temple of Sacred Ashes… Murder of Divine Justinia and leaders of the mage rebellion… Lady Evelyn Trevelyan named ‘Herald of Andraste’ for ability to close Fade rifts… the Breach is still open over the Temple?”

“So the report says,” Vivienne said grimly. “Ill news. For these ‘Fade Rifts’ to occur… the Veil must have torn.” 

“But what in the world could have done that?” Felix demanded.

“Find out. Isn’t that why I pay you?” Dorian read over the report again. “I suppose it might be too much to hope that this would stay a Fereldan or Orlesian problem.” 

“We’ll have to keep an eye out for these Rifts if they open within Tevinter. They’ll have to be isolated if we have no means of closing them on our own,” Vivienne agreed. “It must be the mage rebels. They’re the only ones insane enough to do something like this.”

“I do happen to know several magisters who, given the means, might be insane enough to do something like this,” Dorian pointed out, and Vivienne sniffed. “Either way. Insane as this sounds, thankfully, it’s not our problem yet.” 

“A tear in the Veil is a problem for _everyone_ , my dear,” Vivienne said patiently. 

“And we can either go on high alert, in which case, given our darling citizens’ tendency to try and recreate magical experiments to see why and how they explode, might worsen the situation within our own borders… or…”

“Or,” Vivienne said briskly, “If we can find a way to seal the Breach, as they call it, that might buy us favours, and power, in that part of the world.” 

“A rather difficult endeavour unless we send an ambassador,” Dorian said dryly, “And I’ve had enough of having ambassadors returned to me in several pieces. The blood gets _everywhere_.”

“Don’t worry about me, my dear,” Vivienne smiled faintly.

“ _You_ want to go?” Dorian asked, surprised. “By yourself?”

“I can take care of myself. And I do not look - outwardly - as though I am from Tevinter. It’ll be an interesting perspective, at the least. We’ll set Vol Dorma to the problem, while I enter this Inquisition and perhaps… nudge matters about, here and there.”

“I can’t exactly recommend this,” Felix blinked. “There are a thousand ways this could go wildly wrong. And I’ve actually started to like you.”

“It isn’t as though we’ve ever been remotely successful at dissuading her from doing what she wanted,” Dorian said, resigned. “I could use you here. Especially with the matter of the Chantry being concerned about the Venatori. Something’s wrong.”

“You have Felix for that, my dear,” Vivienne said, with a faint smile. “Secrets are a matter for your Left Hand. Diplomacy is the province of your Right. I’ll be careful.”

“If you’re bent on going,” Dorian said doubtfully. “Be safe. And keep us updated. But don’t take unnecessary risks, and-“

“And do not _worry_ ,” Vivienne cut in, amused. “I am, after all, a more powerful mage than you are. Darling.”

Dorian grit his teeth. “That has yet to be proved!” 

“Are we seriously going to have this argument again?” Felix protested.

“Shut it, Felix,” Dorian growled, throwing up his hands. “Fine! Go if you want.”

“I’ll need travelling expenses,” Vivienne said sweetly, “And a good horse, and mm… perhaps a new gown, cut urgently in the Orlesian style. It won’t do, to be unprepared for at least one Court soiree. Oh, and I will need one of your Imperial seals. For authenticity.”

“The obsidian one?” Dorian asked, resigned. “You know that’s my favourite.”

“The obsidian one,” Vivienne agreed. “The fate of the world, and all that.”

“… Fine! Fine.” 

“Thank you, darling.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this version of Vivienne, she was born in Wycome, but her parents moved back to Rivain upon realizing that she was a mage. She grew up in Rivain, but had no talent for being a Seer, so she moved on to further training in Tevinter. And yes, marriage of convenience. Dorian's orientation is still the same as in game.


	3. Chapter 3

I.

Dorian had hoped that the problem of the Veil rupturing would be confined to the South, but life was never as simple as it should be. The Dragon Gate was unusually clear of traffic for this time of day, as Dorian, Felix and their retinue crested the High Paths that wound down towards the coastal city, and even from this distance, he could see a greenish tear in the fabric of the world that twisted and writhed in the air.

It was surrounded by a ring of templars and Circle mages, and as Dorian straightened up in his stirrups, frowning, Felix gestured, sending a rider ahead to investigate. 

The rider returned with Divine Leonthius, of all people, on a gray destrier, his plate armour flecked with ichor, grim-faced. “Archon,” he greeted Dorian curtly, as he reined his steed up beside Dorian’s roan mare. “Strange days in Minrathous.”

“A tear in the Fade?” 

“Well spotted.” Leonthius said, though he narrowed his eyes slightly. 

“Let me guess,” Dorian said, resigned. “It’s spawning demons? Worse? Demons _and_ worse?”

“‘Just’ demons for now. The Chantry is working on trying to close it.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s possible right now,” Dorian said glumly. “But perhaps it can be contained. How long has it been there?”

“Three hours. There are two advents of demons each time. Once destroyed, the rift seems to take an hour or so to regenerate, and the monsters come through again.” Leonthius tilted his head. “You don’t seem particularly surprised that this is happening. Did you learn something from Vol Dorma?”

Dorian glanced pointedly at Felix, who sighed. “Fine, fine. We’ll have a second spring cleaning soon. Once the hole in the Fade is gone.” 

“I’ll update you after we figure out the immediate problem,” Dorian decided, because despite Vivienne’s opinion, making yet _another_ enemy when his plate had just started to overflow with demons and Fade shenanigans was not the best of ideas. 

Leonthius nodded curtly, and as they drew close, he barked an order, and the closest iron ring of templars spread out, giving them a better view of the rift beyond. Dorian studied it, grimacing: it was not so much a rift but a _rip_ in reality, like a breach torn right through into the Fade, and no doubt the pull of their world was dragging spirits through. Under him, his mare shifted its weight uneasily, spooked.

“The shock of falling into our world must be twisting spirits into demons,” Dorian said, frowning. “When is the next advent?” 

Leonthius squinted briefly up at the sky. “Soon.” 

They didn’t have long to wait. There was a crackle of arcane energy, an ugly, oily feel to the air, then ribbons of greenish energy arced out from the rift, earthing themselves on the ground, even as the templars and mages readied themselves for battle. The ribbon of energy didn’t have the absolute _wrongness_ of the rift, more like a ripple through ambient magic, like a spell being channeled, and with a gesture, Dorian dispelled it, pulling the energy away and spreading it skyward. 

The ribbon he had dispelled disappeared, and seeing this, Felix raised his hands, pulling away the energy of the next closest ribbon. The last two, however, spawned two demons, one molten rage, one icy despair. 

“Cage!” Leonthius snapped, and a pair of Circle mages wove lines of the storm, freezing both demons in spans of lightning. “Archers… ready weapons… draw… _fire!_ ” 

Arrows stitched into both demons, enough to rip apart their essences, and the rift began to pulse again. In mere seconds, more ribbons arced out, and even as Dorian dispelled one, and Felix the other, other mages in the ring took care of the rest. The rift pulsed violently once more, like the twisted heart of some abomination, exposed to the sky, then returned to its insistent twisting, almost quiescent. 

“Good trick,” Leonthius said gruffly. “If we rotate mages through the roster, this can be kept under wraps.” 

“I’ll rustle up some volunteers from the College of Arts,” Felix offered. “It’s the spring break. Plenty of students.” 

“The Chantry can handle this. I’ll rather not get the untried involved,” Leonthius disagreed.

“Pssh,” Dorian flapped a hand. “If these students can’t handle a bit of dispelling, then they probably should drop out. See to it, Felix, thanks. And get people to keep a look out. I have a bad feeling that this rift isn’t going to be the only one. I want all of them contained, and watched by a roster of mages and guards around the clock.”

“Templars,” Leonthius said dryly. “The word you’re looking for is ‘templars’. Archon.” 

There was a murmur from the mages closest by, even as Dorian narrowed his eyes, then he smiled thinly. “By all means, if you’ll like to involve your Order, I’m sure that matters can be arranged. Now. My office, or yours?”

“Yours is closer,” Leonthius shrugged, and nodded to a templar - Knight-Captain Claudia, who saluted and turned on her heel, organising templars and mages briskly into ranks. Felix lingered back as well, with a glance from Dorian, and they rode past the Fade rift and through the Dragon Gate, under the curled, mage-sculpted summer stone edifice of a sleeping dragon, its wings swept over the open Gates. 

The Dragon’s Roost was, perhaps unsurprisingly, close to the Dragon Gate, rising out behind the sweeping Imperial Botanical Gardens, a vast swathe of lush and tended flowers and trees gathered from around Thedas. The thoroughfare bisected the Gardens, with people hastily stepping aside to let the procession pass, staring at the pair of them with open curiosity. 

If Vivienne knew of this, Dorian thought, hiding a grin, she probably would have had to have Strong Words. 

Leonthius was content to be silent, even as their horses were stabled, following Dorian up to his office. The Captain of Dorian’s personal guard, Livia, tried to enter behind them as they walked through, but at Dorian’s half-shake of his head, she pulled a face, gripped her staff tightly, then bowed, and closed the doors as she stepped out. 

The Divine raised his eyebrows. “Confident.”

“You said that I wasn’t your enemy.” Dorian settled into his chair, waving Leonthius to a seat, but instead of sitting down, Leonthius wandered over towards the balcony instead, looking out over the Nocen sea, hands clasped behind his back. Insolent man. “The rifts are an effect of an… event that happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes.” 

Leonthius turned, frowning. “The Temple? What on earth?” 

Dorian pulled Vivienne’s scroll from his robes, tossing it over, and Leonthius read it for a moment before he rolled it back up. “Your wife is a very resourceful woman.”

“I’ll relay your compliments.”

“If this so-called Breach took place in the Temple, why would it have an effect as far as Minrathous?”

“I have a feeling,” Dorian said wryly, “That it’s going to have an effect _everywhere_. Not just Minrathous. If we’re lucky, it won’t be a common occurrence, however. But Felix should have sent word to all our cities and towns by now. If we can keep the worst effects suppressed with dispels, we might just avoid being overrun by monsters.”

“We can’t exactly keep up something like this forever.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know,” Dorian said brightly. “Throw a rock anywhere in this country and you’re bound to hit a mage or two.” 

Leonthius actually smiled, if a little sharply. “Isn’t a huge breach in the Fade something that’s _bad_ for the world in general?”

“Sort of like how a crystal bowl cracking and leaking all over the place is bad for all the fish living in it in general, yes.” 

“So,” Leonthius drawled, “Should we be hoping for the best and leaving the South to fix their own problems?”

“ _You’re_ from the South. You tell me.” 

Leonthius stiffened, but he exhaled, and finally walked over to settle with a clatter and a creak of leather into the chair before Dorian’s desk. “The South’s changed utterly since I left it. The mage uprising, the Chantry beginning to splinter… and now the death of Divine Justinia? I can’t begin to predict what might happen.” 

“Any contacts?”

“Not… particularly. I did not leave the Order - that is to say, the _Templar_ Order in the South - under the best of circumstances.” 

“You’re making me curious.” Dorian offered, steepling his fingers, and Leonthius smiled thinly. 

“Regardless, I think that the Lady Vivienne’s contacts would be better placed for information.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about information. Vivienne’s decided to go and take a look at the situation personally.”

Leonthius blinked. “Is that wise?”

“She’ll be _so_ flattered that the Most Holy was worried about her well-being. Wise or not, she believes that it’s necessary.”

“And you don’t,” Leonthius noted. 

“I think that if the mages of the South did this to the world, hopefully, they can also fix whatever they did.” 

Leonthius snorted. “One mage has two opinions, two mages have five, multiply it by however many there are out there in the South and… let’s just say that I have no confidence that this ‘Breach’ will be fixed anytime soon.”

“We have the thaumaturgists in Vol Dorma looking into the matter as well. Either way, if the rifts are all that this ‘Breach’ will create in Tevinter, I’ll be happy. What I _am_ curious about,” Dorian added, “Is how… interesting the world has become, all at once. A new Divine, a worsening Venatori problem, and now this.” 

“The Temple of Sacred Ashes is far from Tevinter. I doubt that the Venatori are involved.” 

“I hope not,” Dorian groused. “I’d rather like the Imperium to be the innocent party in the matter of the world going to pieces. For once.”

“One can only hope. As to the Venatori, they are perhaps a common enemy,” Leonthius agreed. “But they are also an ideological problem. One that the Imperial Chantry can resolve on its own.” 

“Oh really? Do tell,” Dorian said, with arch surprise.

“You have enough problems of your own, Archon.” Leonthius rose from his seat, and nodded his head. “By your leave.”

“And _you_ accused me of confidence,” Dorian said, a trifle irritated. “It’s not a _bad_ thing to accept help when it’s offered.”

“Are you offering?” 

“To share information-“

“The file that we have on the Venatori is rather more complete than yours.” Leonthius cut in, with a faint smirk. “But thank you. For the offer.” 

Bastard.

II.

Rifts opened up elsewhere, one in Qarinus, one on the Imperial Highway near Perivantium, a couple scattered about between Vyrantium and Neromenian, and one, to the College of Alchemy’s delight, right in the College Gardens in Vol Dorma. Perhaps there were others in the Silent Plains or in the forests south of Weisshaupt, but for now, everything seemed fairly contained.

The Rifts _were_ opening gradually over time, however, perhaps one every couple of days or so, and Dorian was beginning to feel less optimistic as time passed. Vivienne’s last note had been brisk: she had just entered Nevarra and was heading south.

“Dorian?” 

Dorian glanced up from the game, a little sheepishly, his hand still frozen above one of the pawns. “Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.”

Magister Gereon Alexius smiled wryly from across the chess table. “No doubt. We live in strange times.”

Dorian nodded slowly. They were seated in the Collegiate Gardens in Minrathous, which were, in effect, not so much a set of traditional gardens but yet another work of mage-crafted art, one of many in the Imperium. Glass platforms floated over a huge circular lake dotted with yellow and white lilies, each platform either housing pavilions weaved of ivy and rose, benches among flowering, sweet-smelling shrubs, or, in their case, a crystal chess table, each piece intricately shaped, their marble chairs set over soft turf. Delicate bridges of white stone connected each platform to the banks of the lake, hung with silver clappers that sang in the wind. Below the bridges and the platforms, little fish in brilliant hues darted together, in shoals that seemed wrought of hundreds of tiny iridescent gems. 

“Any opinions from the Collegium?” 

“A hundred opinions, naturally,” Gereon exhaled. “As you know, we hosted a symposium yesterday to debate the matter, and-“

“Burned down the Grand Theatre again?”

“It was very close,” Gereon conceded. As Dean of the College of Arts in Minrathous, he was an old hand at how… heated… debates in the Grand Theatre could get. “Naturally our colleagues in Vol Dorma have their own opinions on the matter.”

“Naturally. What of the Circles? Did the First Enchanter of Minrathous deign to attend?”

“He did, as did half the Senior Enchanters. We even had guests: Senior Enchanters from the Circles in Asariel and Marnus Pell.” Gereon sighed. “Nothing so _very_ exciting has occurred in magic as this since the last time the Fade was breached by our distant ancestors. There were talks about trying to find a way _through_ into one of the Fade Rifts.” 

Dorian shuddered. “I hope that idea was shut down posthaste?”

“Oh yes. The Grand Clerics and the First Enchanter were unanimous in their disapproval. Quite an earthshaking event in its own right.” 

“What’s your opinion?” 

“I think that our Southern brethren have been playing with magic best left forgotten. Elven magic, I would wager. We’re quite insulated here in the College, but I don’t believe that the mage rebellion is going well. It’s dragged on for a number of years, after all, run by people who have spent most of their lives living as prisoners.”

“They tried to emulate Tevinter in some places,” Dorian said glumly, even as he moved his pawn. “The blind imitating the blind.”

“They have no other role models to follow, where free mages are concerned. Tevinter or Rivain, and Tevinter perhaps is an easier model.” Gereon moved a knight. “How is Felix? You’re working him hard. He’s always late when he comes home, if at all, and full of strange stories.”

“He’s doing well. The Imperium will collapse without him.”

Gereon laughed, studying the board, though there was a fierce fondness in his smile. Felix had been the only survivor of a darkspawn attack that had killed his mother and many of House Alexius’ retainers, in an ill-fated trip to Hossberg, and it had been perhaps a minor miracle that Felix had not contracted the Blight sickness. To the old man, Felix was his sole remaining treasure. “No doubt.” 

“It’ll be good to know how the rest of the Senate stand on the matter of the Breach,” Dorian said idly, for Gereon had backed his play for power when he had chosen to enter the running for Archon, and was one of his closest friends in the Senate. 

“The Senate?” Gereon snorted. “The usual. Half of them waiting to see what will happen, half already squabbling, all of them wondering how to use the situation for their own personal advantage. All the Circles have volunteered Enchanters for Rift-watch, however, including our... not so religiously inclined friends. None of them truly like the idea of the Templar Order assuming total responsibility for the rifts.”

“I can’t quite figure out the new Divine,” Dorian confessed, moving a rook. “He’s a strange one.” 

“Him?” Gereon clasped his palms together, glancing briefly to the side, over the lilies, towards the distant slender rise of the Argent Spire. “He’s an easy one. A military man. Better on the field of war than in the field of politics, I imagine. Best not to waste your time on him. I can’t imagine what the Grand Clerics were thinking, electing him to the position. He hasn’t used his seat in the Magisterium controversially so far, though: the Chantry bloc still votes together as one, as always, the Divine and the Grand Clerics both.” 

“I have a feeling that perhaps the balance of power has shifted in the Chantry, while we weren’t watching,” Dorian said softly. “Something has happened. Possibly involving the Venatori.” 

Gereon grimaced. “Warmongering supremacists. Even the Senate’s infected. You should get Felix to keep a close eye on Livius. He’s stopped attending symposiums of late. Keeps to himself.” 

“Livius? Strange little man? Pale? Bulging eyes?”

“You’re the Archon now, Dorian,” Gereon said patiently. “At _least_ try to remember the names _and_ faces of your Senate.”

“But there are so _many_ of you,” Dorian protested archly. “It’s too _hard_.” 

“Your father used to be an acquaintance of Livius. They were friends while they were students in the College. He might not be a bad place to start.”

“Him? Any conversation with him will just segue into a nagging argument about grandchildren.” 

“He does have a point,” Gereon noted, amused. “You know what will happen should you pass on without a successor.”

“The same that happened the last time, I’m sure. You people in the Senate will simply get together and elect the least objectionable non-Magister to the Arcane Seat. Possibly the most fashionable one at that.” Dorian held up a hand when Gereon started to object. “I don’t need to hear this lecture from _you_ as well, old friend.”

“All right. You know,” Gereon said thoughtfully, “There was another Magister missing from yesterday’s symposium whom I thought would be there. Erasthenes.”

“Isn’t he the Old Gods expert?”

“Exactly. He has written several treatises on the Fade, and on the Black City, and such. I thought that surely he would be present, to listen in, if anything. But he wasn’t about. And his assistant mentioned that the Magister hasn’t been at his office in the College for a week.”

“Strange behaviour?”

“Usually you’d have to all but pry him out of there even to eat.”

“All right,” Dorian said doubtfully. “You don’t think he had anything to do with the matter, do you?”

“Erasthenes?” Gereon snorted. “He’ll rather die than be dragged away from his relics and books. I think he would’ve quite happily pottered on in life even if the entire world other than Minrathous burned away. It was just a thought. Perhaps he is visiting relatives, or squirrelled away somewhere on another experiment. But he should be able to give you a better opinion than the symposium on what has happened.” 

“I see. Then I’ll have Felix look into it. How hard can it be to find an old scholar?”


	4. Chapter 4

I.

Magister Erasthenes’ villa smelled of rot and voided guts and death, an obvious if depressing hint at what had happened, even without the murdered guards littering the ruined carpeting and the liberal splashes of blood and gore everywhere.

They had fallen where they had stood, some in an attempt at resistance, with their weapons still in hand, others having died in an ultimately futile bid at escape, backs turned, hands still reaching out blindly on the ground. There were no convenient other bodies about that would’ve given a hint at who had attacked: as far as it looked, Erasthenes’ guards had all fallen like so much threshed wheat, faces frozen in unnatural rictuses of fear, even in death. Their wounds were not physical in nature. Some had been torn open, others seemingly suffocated, bodies untouched, some had been splashed across the grounds, pieces everywhere, as though their murderer had toyed with various methods of delivering death, and hadn’t been able to decide.

“ _Someone_ redecorated,” Dorian quipped, because it he could either face unbridled horror with humour or lose the contents of his stomach, and it wouldn’t _do_ for the Archon to be seen to be squeamish. Behind him, one of his personal guard was throwing up noisily in a corner, and at Dorian’s affected sigh, Livia glided away, probably to drag the poor man outside and give him a stern talking-to. 

Felix pulled a face, though he did also look a little green about the gills, and his hands were shaking slightly. “This is how the villa looked when I had our agents break in. The area’s secure, but I thought you might like to have a look before we clean up and pass the property on to his executors.”

“Did he have a will?”

“Left everything to his wife. Who didn’t survive. In the event of that, since Erasthenes didn’t have children, I think the property’s split between some distant cousins.” 

“Get me their names. And send word to the Divine. He might want to come and have a look around as well.”

“Are you sure?” Felix blinked, if in a soft voice, out of hearing from the other guards fanning out to keep an eye on the darkened villa.

“I’ll like to take his measure on this.” 

Felix nodded, stepping away to have a word with one of his scouts, even as Livia reappeared quietly behind Dorian, her face grim as she followed him through the foyer of the villa, her hand tight on her staff. “All these paintings,” Dorian said regretfully. “Isn’t that a genuine Arronia? _Such_ a waste.”

Never quite one for facetiousness, and used to his moods, Livia grunted. Livia was the youngest daughter of House Tilani, a second cousin of Dorian’s and the sister of the flamboyant Magister Maevaris. Unlike her golden-haired sister, she was mousy-haired, but her glance around the bloodied corridors was flat and calm, and she wore a light armour of leather and veridium plates, supple over her black breeches and high boots, eschewing the feathery, sheer gowns that were currently in fashion in Tevinter, decorated only by the crest of her House, set over her right sleeve, and the black-enamel chain of office of the Captain of the Archon Guard. 

“The villa’s empty,” Livia said quietly. “Whatever happened here, it happened at least two days ago.”

“No one bothered to check in on the old man?” 

“Magister Erasthenes liked to keep to himself, apparently.” Felix had caught up with them, jogging to a stop beside Dorian. “His villa was mostly self-contained. Little farm out the back, even. Seems he liked to spend days upon end locked up with his little experiments and relics, either here or back in the College. Didn’t always bother to attend Senate sessions, even.”

“Who had his vote in lieu?”

“Father did.” Felix shrugged. “It’s not uncommon for Magisters who also hold a Chair in a College to give their votes in lieu to the Dean.” 

Dorian nodded slowly. Mages were notoriously tribal creatures, sadly. “Come to think of it, I don’t think he even bothered to be present when they were voting on the matter of appointing an Archon.” 

“He wasn’t.” Livia said curtly. “But Maevaris said that the vote had an obvious outcome. Not everyone attended.” 

“How _is_ your sister?” Dorian asked curiously. “I heard about the matter in Ath Velanis…” 

“She’s fine. Doing well in Qarinus.” Livia’s tone didn’t brook further discussion. “Our men have examined the bodies. Mostly guards. Erasthenes’ wife Hadriana is dead in her chambers. Her head’s on her dresser, her hands are in the sink, her body is-“

“Thank you, Livia, I get the drift,” Dorian said hastily, and had to concentrate a little to keep his lunch down.

“My point is, Dorian,” Livia continued flatly, “There was anger in these murders, a great deal of it. Someone was vindictive. Some of the dead obviously suffered more than most. But there was no blood magic involved.”

“No blood magic?” Dorian repeated, incredulous, with a wave at another liberal splash of blood across a stained glass window. “What is all that, then? Paint?”

“It’s just dressing,” Livia said, in the same monotone. “Probably set up to _look_ like a blood magic experiment gone wrong. But it’s been done badly. Firstly. Who would use Soporati in a blood magic ritual, when there are slaves about? Records indicate that Erasthenes owned his share of slaves, humans and elves both.”

“Also,” Felix added, “All the slaves are gone. Their bodies aren’t anywhere.”

“So they might be… worse than dead?” Dorian hazarded, disgusted despite himself. “Maker’s _balls_. Is Erasthenes dead?”

“Missing.” Livia said curtly.

“ _Missing_? And you’re _still_ convinced it’s not blood magic? Maybe he took the slaves along as fodder for… for whatever else he might be doing!”

“Father said that-“ Felix began.

“Yes, yes, Erasthenes is an old man, only loves his books and gimracks, wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Dorian said impatiently. “But maybe something cracked. Maybe he got frustrated over something or other and…” He exhaled irritably. “I _really_ hope that this has nothing to do with the Breach. I don’t want to have to say to the world, ‘Well, fuck me! It was us after all! Again!’”

Livia blinked, a little unnerved by Dorian’s outburst, but Felix said, gently, “That’s yet to be proved.”

“So far, it’s not looking good.” The inner courtyard of the villa was also carpeted with bodies, all Soporati guards and staff, by the look of their livery. As he studied the blood-soaked fountain, the water black with old blood, Dorian looked at the ambient signature, feeling for it. The magic that had done this had long faded, however, and he could sense nothing.

Leonthius caught up with them when they were in Erasthenes’ laboratory, a basement floor that had once been filled with lovingly preserved relics and books. The glass display cabinets were all smashed, little urns shattered, other strange objects like orbs and statues strewn liberally across the floor, as though in an explosive rage. A bookshelf had collapsed, its books in an untidy heap beneath it, and even as Dorian stared at it in dismay, Leonthius said, behind them, “Bad business.”

Thankfully, Dorian didn’t jump. He hadn’t heard Leonthius’ approach, absorbed as he was in surveying the wreckage, trying to make some sense of the destruction. The laboratory, at least, was blood-free, although some of the relics would never be the same. “If it _was_ Erasthenes,” Dorian said, “Why in the Maker’s name would he destroy his life’s work?”

“Like you said, Archon,” Livia noted, “Maybe he got ‘frustrated’.”

“Or it could be someone else,” Felix offered doubtfully. “Looking for something that Erasthenes had. Maybe they had a fight. Erasthenes lost.” 

“But his body isn’t anywhere,” Livia pointed out. “Or his slaves.”

“Maybe he fled,” Felix amended, though it was an awkward argument and he knew it. “Maybe some Soporati made it out with him too.” 

“If he fled, he would’ve fled to the College and bleated about the attack. Magisters are so _very_ good at that, after all,” Dorian said grumpily. “No. Something stinks, and I’m afraid it might be our dear ‘departed’ Old Gods expert.”

“Great timing as well.” Leonthius' lip curled. “What with the Breach occurring.” 

“The timing doesn’t match,” Felix disagreed. “The Breach happened _weeks_ ago. All this is but a couple of days old, at most.” 

“Which means that Erasthenes might still be in the Imperium,” Livia suggested.

“Unless he cast off in a ship off the Nocean Sea,” Dorian scowled. “Have our people scan his records, whatever they can find, interview all his known associates, find out who was next in line for his seat, and so on. Hopefully it’s just another side story in Tevinter political restructuring.”

“Meaning you think he’s dead?” Leonthius toed an orb aside. “I find that unlikely. Especially with his body missing. Along with his slaves.” 

“Well,” Dorian said irritably, “Is it blood magic, or nay? If it is, I rather think that this might be _your_ problem, Most Holy.”

“I doubt it,” Leonthius said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve seen the effects of a blood magic throwdown gone wrong. There would’ve been at least _some_ demon residue, if not a pack of demons roaming the grounds. Or an… oily feel to the air, lingering even days after, especially with murder done on this scale. None of the dead that I saw on my way up here were killed by demons, either. There’s nothing left here. Only death.” 

“Told you,” Livia murmured.

“But it may be my business after all,” Leonthius agreed, and at Dorian’s arched eyebrows, added, a little reluctantly, “I’ve heard that Erasthenes had attracted… Venatori attention of late. We intercepted some of their correspondence with him weeks ago.”

“Weeks ago,” Dorian said, resigned. “Before the Breach?”

“Aye. I’ll have to retrieve our copies from the Argent Spire, but if I recall, the enquiries seemed innocent enough at the time, simple questions about Erasthenes’ experience with pre-First Blight artefacts. The Chantry didn’t think it truly worth investigating. The Venatori are always interested in pre-First Blight information.”

“I’ll like to see those copies.” Dorian said pointedly, and Leonthius stared at him for a moment before he smirked faintly.

“Of course, Archon. I’ll have a set delivered to your office.” 

“Bad feeling,” Felix told Dorian dryly. “Old artefacts. Fade Breach. Blood and death everywhere and missing slaves.”

“Yes, thank you, Felix.” Dorian sighed. “Find Erasthenes. We’re going to have to have a little talk.”

“If you do,” Leonthius said, looking around the laboratory again, “I’ll like to be present.”

II.

Almost all of Erasthenes’ staff were accounted for, save for a frightened scullery maid who had been on leave for two weeks, away to Asariel to see her mother, and had been intercepted at the security cordon outside the villa a day after, attempting to get in. No, she had no idea about any ‘special visitors’ that the Master might have had. No, she was never allowed into his office, or his laboratory, only the kitchens and the servant’s quarters. No, the Master and the Mistress had always been fair to the staff.

Dorian glanced up from the report. “What about the slaves? How did they treat their slaves?”

Felix shrugged. “The Soporati quarters and the slave quarters were separate. I gather that she never really talked to them: they kept to themselves, and none of the slaves had kitchen duties.” 

“Surely she would’ve known if something had happened.”

“No blood magic or suspicious stains or screams, sadly, nothing so obvious,” Felix said dryly. “By her account, it was a quiet household. Erasthenes liked his privacy, and Hadriana was often away on parties. We’ve gathered statements from her friends, but all of them had no idea that something like this could’ve happened.”

“What House was she from?”

“She’s Laetan. As are her friends. No real surprise there.”

“We’re _so_ tribal.” 

“I gather they met when Erasthenes was completing his Masters in the College and set up house together. Two Laetans.” Felix sighed. “Vivienne’s going to have Words with you for not knowing this.”

“Like I told your father,” Dorian complained, “There are so _many_ magisters. I can’t keep track of them all. It’s like trying to keep tabs on a pack of cats, all the while trying to keep them all from scratching each other - or me.” 

“ _Hardly_ ‘so many’,” Felix grumbled. “But either way. As far as the serving girl knew, the slaves were fine. No one suspiciously disappeared from time to time.” 

“How many of them were there?”

“Five elves, three female, two male. And two female humans, one of whom was Erasthenes’ assistant: the handwriting in many of his journals is hers. The only mage of the lot.”

“A mage?” Not entirely unusual, but still strange. 

“Seems she had a generational debt owed, and Erasthenes bought it. Wanted a mage assistant for his studies. She was the only one allowed in his laboratory,” Felix checked his notes. “Brought Erasthenes food, did the cleaning, everything.”

“Name?”

“Calpernia.” 

“She probably had the best chance of escaping whatever it was, then,” Dorian decided. “Trace her family. Maybe she fled to them.”

Felix nodded, making a note. “We got another letter by raven from Vivienne. She’s crossed the Minanter. Rifts are opening in Nevarra as well: the country’s in a panic. Opinion’s torn between people who think it’s our fault, and people who think it’s the mage uprising’s fault.” 

“The usual,” Dorian said, resigned, and looked to Livia, who had been standing silently by the door all this while. “Fortify our borders for now. In case any Nevarran nobility decide to tilt at us just to let off some steam.”

Livia nodded curtly, but said nothing.

“She intends to cross the Waking Sea from Cumberland and head to Haven. Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast has formed the Inquisition, with this Evelyn Trevelyan as part of it. Common opinion seems to be wavering between her being actually the ‘Herald of Andraste’ or a fraud.”

“The ‘Inquisition’?” Dorian asked, amused. “Well, well. That’s interesting. I bet the Chantry wasn’t pleased.”

“Not at all. But they’ve got other problems on their hands,” Felix noted. “What with having to elect the new Divine, but with most of the viable candidates dead at the Temple when the Breach happened.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “The world’s ending, the sky’s asunder, and people are only interested in politicking.”

“Everyone’s the same the world over,” Felix said dryly. “Sadly.” 

“Can we get a message to her?”

“Very likely. We’re using white ravens. Vivienne commandeered two of them from the Dragon’s Roost. Using,” Felix noted, just as dryly, “Your obsidian seal.” 

Dorian groaned. “Those ravens are emergency use only!”

“Well. The world _is_ possibly ending.”

“Fine. Tell her…” Dorian hesitated. “All this is encrypted?”

“As much as we can make it.”

“What about the Chantry eyes and ears?”

“Swept out, as far as I can tell.” Felix said, resigned. “Sneaky bastards. You’d never guess who it was this time. One of the junior archivists. A mage of middling talent but a genius at lockpicking.”

“What did we do to him?”

“Livia threw him out of a window,” Felix said, a little accusingly. 

“Livia!” 

“Relax,” Livia said flatly. “It wasn’t high up. He broke both his legs, that’s all. We returned him to the Chantry afterwards.”

“She also told him,” Felix added glumly, as Dorian sighed, “That the next spy she finds, she’ll throw him from the next floor up, and so on, and so on.” 

“I don’t like spies.” Livia said.

“Felix is a spy.”

“I don’t like spies,” Livia repeated grimly. 

Grimacing, Felix said, “ _Moving along_. Yes. Encrypted messages. Keyed to my personal arcane signature, Vivienne’s, and yours, as per normal. Anything you wanted to say?”

“Summarise the Erasthenes matter. If he’s fled, I have a feeling he probably fled southwards, as well. Have her keep an eye out for the Venatori where she’s going. I have a bad feeling that our dear countrymen have probably gotten their sticky fingers into everything.” 

“Should get the Senate to denounce them,” Livia said curtly. “Like my sister suggested before.” 

“Yes, I know,” Dorian grumbled, “But I don’t yet have the political capital to move all those votes on this issue, particularly with the Venatori influence on the Senate itself still in place. We’ll have to wait and see. But if we _can_ prove they’re even a little behind the latest attempt to fuck up the world, I’m sure that something could be arranged.”

“Not that it’ll be worth even a rat’s arse,” Felix murmured. “What? Assuming you get the votes to denounce the Venatori, try getting the votes to move the Senate to commit resources to _countering_ the Venatori. The war in Seheron is costly, blah blah, you know how it’ll go.”

“Life is so _hard_.” 

“I’ll get the message to Vivienne. Anything else?” 

“Divine Leonthius promised to share information. Can we chase that up?” 

“I’ll send a raven.” Felix said unenthusiastically. 

“Something wrong?”

“All this… _asking_ for information,” Felix protested. “It’s so _wrong_.” 

“Well, if we hadn’t lost all our eyes and ears in the Chantry, maybe we could’ve acquired it all in a more interesting way?” Dorian drawled. “Did they throw _our_ spies out of a window?”

“Stripped them bare and kicked them out of the main door, actually.”

“Really?” Dorian blinked. “That’s actually rather… civilised.”

“Not particularly. Their cover’s blown, and it was done right after an afternoon Mass. What with the publicity and the uproar, I’ve had to send them off to remote corners of the Imperium: they’re useless to us as anything but clerks, and we _still_ have to pay them.” Felix complained. “It’ll have been better for our resources if they’d been thrown out of a window… I was only _joking_ , Dorian.”

“I should hope so!” 

“The new Divine’s a bastard,” Livia supplied shortly, then she paused. “Nice arse, though.” 

Dorian pinched at the bridge of his nose.


	5. Chapter 5

I.

_Dearest Dorian,_

_I am writing from Cumberland. The weather is fair, the city is in chaos, divided coarsely into three zones: Chantry, mage rebels and the Docks, in a deadlock that doesn’t seem to have moved very much over the years. It is all very disorganised._

_The sailors of a ship of variable repute attempted to waylay me on my way to the Docks, and I gave them quite a stern talking to, upon which their Captain apologised profusely, and we are now on the best of terms. As such, despite the scarcity of ships in Cumberland at present, I have secured passage through to Jader, where I will make my way south to Haven._

_The matter of Erasthenes is troubling. I have attended one of his wife’s soirees, and found her to be a woman of middling ambition, given to casual cruelties when her will was thwarted. Erasthenes, in comparison, was a mouse of a man, only interested in his books. I would not have believed him capable of surviving a magical assault. And, as Felix says, the curious matter of the missing slaves makes the situation especially suspicious. I will keep an eye out for our missing magister._

_Also, Dorian dear, while I am away, it mustn’t do for us to neglect our social obligations. Please note:_

_\- This week, on Friday, you are to attend Magister Varen’s daughter’s wedding. I know that you despise the man, but one must make appearances, and Varen did back your play for power. While you are at the wedding, please make a special effort to be nice to the groom. He is the only son of House Mavrena and is quite likely to inherit his mother’s seat in the Senate within the next year, for she is very ill with consumption._

_\- On the Sunday, there is a Summerday Eve soiree that you are to attend at Magister Ciceron’s mansion in Marnus Pell. If you pretend again to be ill I will find out, and I will not be pleased. While you are at the soiree please do not make juvenile attempts to hide from your father. House Pavus needs to present a united front before the Imperium._

_\- On Summerday, you are to attend the Midday Mass at the Argent Spire, no excuses, and please try your best - Felix do note this as well - not to antagonise the Divine, particularly if you happen to be in public._

_\- Your mother’s name-day party is next Tuesday. Please convey my utmost apologies for my absence. Our gift is in my chambers in the Dragon’s Roost, within the third wardrobe, wrapped in pearl foil. Ensure that it is delivered undamaged. And do attend the party. She is your mother, after all._

_Yours sincerely,_  
_Vivienne_

“That woman is a holy terror,” Dorian said glumly, setting down the letter.

“Maker knows what she did to the sailors,” Felix agreed. 

“They might try to do her harm once across the Waking Sea,” Livia ventured, unable to read the letter due to the magical cipher but evidently hazarding a broad guess.

“I’m sure she has their balls well and truly in hand,” Dorian shrugged. “In any case, get a letter back to her with an update on the situation. Frequency of rifts opening seems to have slowed down. Rifts well-contained at present with mage and templar rosters. Mm… Mention that the Divine has so _kindly_ shared information, tell her about the orb that Erasthenes was asked to research. Send her a copy of the sketch of the orb as well. And of course, my best regards, stay safe, etcetera.”

“And an assurance that you are going to do as she asks?” Felix asked dryly, looking up from his notes.

“Do what?”

“On Friday you are meant to attend-“

“Well, yes, yes, those are suggestions rather than anything-“

“Dorian, I really don’t think-“

“Who’s the Archon, eh?” Dorian scowled, nettled. “Me, or Vivienne?”

“Well, obviously you are,” Felix said dryly, “Fine. Shall I write to her saying that you do not intend to attend any of the parties, then?”

“Er… no.” Dorian mumbled, and exhaled irritably. “Fine! I’ll go. But Varen is still a smug little toad with such a great _love_ for his own nasal voice. Friday is going to be _execrable_.” 

“You _are_ Archon,” Livia said pointedly. “Part of your job _happens_ to be keeping an eye on the balance of power.”

“I know, I know.” Dorian sighed. “Ugh. Varen’s a slaver as well. That’s how he got rich enough to marry his daughter off to an Altus boy despite being a first-generation Laetan. It’s a wedding funded by blood money.”

“Yes,” Felix said patiently. “But regardless. He’s a good ally in the Senate, especially if you’re going to start corralling votes on the Venatori matter. He’s one of the few Magisters who’s openly taken a stance against the Venatori.”

“That’s because a relaxation of the world’s trade embargoes against us will only increase his profits,” Dorian grunted. “Nationalism and fundamentalism is bad for business. All right. You’ve made your point, Felix, stop lecturing me. How goes the interviews over in the College?”

Felix pulled a face. “Father’s a little annoyed, but he can’t say that we’re disrupting the College since it’s the summer break. We’ve interviewed the other Chairs, and Father of course-“

“That must have been a fun conversation.”

“Well, Livia talked to him, not me, or it wouldn’t have been fair.”

Dorian raised his eyebrows. Livia sniffed. “I was diplomatic.”

“Really? Didn’t try to throw him out of a window then?”

“That was just once. And it was a spy.” 

“ _Naturally_ ,” Felix hurried along, “Father and the other Chairs are all rather bemused that this happened at all. Erasthenes had never shown any interest whatsoever in blood magic. They’re of the opinion that someone must have murdered Erasthenes for his seat on the Senate, likely thinking that he was a soft target.”

“And was he? A soft target?”

“Well,” Felix allowed, “Father said he was a fairly decent hand at wards and bindings when he was younger, but the reason why he was awarded the Magister seat was because he went to College with the previous Archon, who wanted to fill a seat on the Senate with a Magister who had no interest in politics at all.”

“So… assuming that Erasthenes is dead… who inherits his seat?” 

“His closest mage relative is a first cousin, Senior Enchanter Allaria of the Circle of Qarinus. She’s been in Qarinus all of this month. I’ve put a watch on her, just in case, but I doubt she was behind this.” Felix pulled a face. “I’ve also had the Imperial Highway watched, but there’s no sign of Erasthenes anywhere so far.”

“What about this Calpernia? The mage slave?”

“Her father’s working as a slave in Magister Ciceron’s employ. We could probably talk to him when we attend the soiree,” Felix said, very dryly. “Which we _are_ attending, aren’t we?”

Dorian muttered something rude under his breath. “What about Magister Livius? The other person your father told us to take a look at?”

“Ah.” Felix leafed through his notes. “I was coming to that.”

II.

Magister Livius’ home had evidently been abandoned for at least two _months_ , though the semblance of activity had been kept up by way of a simple illusion enchantment set on all the windows. Livius’ estate was a sprawling affair close to the western border of Minrathous, his neighbours distant over rolling lawns and tall hedges, so it was perhaps not unusual that no one had realized that Livius had gone missing.

“No blood magic, at least,” Leonthius noted. The Divine had met them at the gate to the mansion, accompanied by his Knight-Captain and a small handful of templars: Felix had sent word ahead. The templars had spread out once they were within the grounds, and even Claudia had wandered off somewhere, leaving Leonthius alone with Felix, Livia and Dorian. 

“No doubt your men are going to make sure of that?” Dorian asked, as always a little thrown by Leonthius’ casual confidence.

“Among other things. Livius is part of the Venatori.” 

“… That’s news to me,” Felix said, with a blink. 

Leonthius shrugged. “He hid it well. Even in the way he voted on matters in the Senate, I believe.”

“Well yes,” Dorian said, still surprised. “I mean. He backed _me_ for Archon, and I ran on a reformist slant. I’ve made no secret of what I think of the Venatori and their nationalism.”

“The Venatori are perhaps subtler than what you think, Archon,” Leonthius said.

“Subtle enough that the Chantry didn’t notice when one of the ‘known’ Venatori Magisters went missing?” Dorian asked, a little snidely. 

Leonthius glanced around the dusty corridor they were walking through pointedly. “The Venatori are not outlawed in Tevinter, nor is it illegal for citizens to travel around the Imperium. They come and go.”

“So you _knew_ he wasn’t here?” Felix asked, frowning. “Why did you bother to show up, then?”

“Well,” Leonthius said, with a faint smile, looking directly at Dorian, “It’ll hardly be polite to refuse. Besides,” he added, when Dorian simply stared at him, “We didn’t have the jurisdiction to order a search of the grounds. You do.”

“Riding on the hem of my robes, I see.” Dorian said, though there wasn’t much heat in it. Maker, but Leonthius was _gorgeous_ when he smiled, especially like this, sharp and ruthless. 

Wherever Livius had gone, he clearly hadn’t expected to return. There had been some effort to drape the better furniture with cloth, but from the looks of the notes left about the mansion and Livius’ financial records in his desk, most of his servants had been quietly dismissed, though he had made large purchases by way of travelling supplies, enough to outfit a small armed party. He had taken his guards and his slaves and left, it seemed.

“He holds a Chair in the College, doesn’t he?” Dorian asked out aloud, as he leafed through one of Livius’ ledgers.

“That he does.” Felix sounded a little resigned. “The College is going to be considerably annoyed if we sift through them all over again.”

“I don’t see blood splashed everywhere right now, and as the Most Holy pointed out, it’s within every citizen’s right to travel wherever he pleases.” Dorian slapped the book back on the desk, sifting up a small cloud of dust. “Try and find some of the servants who used to work here-“ 

The rest of his words were swallowed in a startled yelp as brick and masonry crumbled abruptly behind him. Whirling around, Dorian was just in time to watch Leonthius settle back from having kicked a hole in the wall at a corner of Livius’ office.

What.

Dorian closed his eyes briefly. “Now, I know we’re all frustrated here, but vandalising property is rather uncalled for, isn’t it?”

“The wall was recently painted and built, badly so,” Leonthius retorted. “Look at that. It’s a stairwell down.” 

Dorian padded over for a look. The crumbled wall had blocked up a small alcove, recessed into the wall, with a torch bracket set into the brick. With a gesture, Dorian lit it, and shadows flared down a narrow, curling stair of well-worn slabs of gray stone, an older hue than the rest of the paving in Livius’ estate. 

“I hate it when I find things like this,” Dorian said.

“ _I_ found it, you mean,” Leonthius said, though he smiled faintly again. 

“For all you know,” Felix quipped, as Dorian glared at Leonthius, “Maybe it’s just the entrance to his treasure vault.”

“In Tevinter? Which self-respecting Magister’s treasure vault door isn’t right out in the open, front and centre in the private office, and obviously dwarven-made?” Dorian drawled. His father had such a door back home in the Pavus estate, and he would wager that there was one in the Alexius estate as well. 

“… You have a point.” Felix conceded. “So, uh. Who first?” 

Leonthius started to step forward, but Livia barred his path with the haft of her bladed staff, and walked into the alcove. After a tense moment, listening to her footsteps fading and echoing lower and lower below, there was finally a drifting, “All clear.” 

Dorian beat Leonthius to the stair, but only barely. Livia had lit her way down, and the stairs were somewhat less dusty than the rest of the estate, due to the having been walled up. They corkscrewed down to a cellar of sorts, hollowed into a natural cave, the temperature unnaturally cold. It was a laboratory, because of _course_ it was, but even though Dorian had braced himself for the worst, the place was almost… scientific. Books lined the entirety of the wall to his left, and armour racks and glass cases held artefacts immediately before him. The chamber was an irregular rectangle, the long wall running to his right and culminating in an operating table and shelves of specimen jars, filled with oddly mutated human organs. There was a stink of preserving fluid, but nothing of blood or rot, and on the operating table, a stained sheet covered a body.

Leonthius strode right over to it, pulling back the sheet, and he blinked, dragging it further back, revealing a dead _darkspawn_ , of all things, a shrivelled husk of a thing, preserved by the cold. “That’s a… hurlock, isn’t it?” Dorian said, blinking. “What in the name of the Maker?”

“These are probably all darkspawn organs as well.” Leonthius squinted at the jars. “They’re all labelled. ‘Emissary liver’.” 

“… All right. I admit. I wasn’t expecting this.” Dorian conceded slowly. 

“All these are books on Grey Wardens and the Blight,” Felix was scanning the books at the shelves. “And those are Grey Warden artefacts in the cabinets, I don’t wonder. He even has a set of their armour.”

“Maybe he was a… fan?” Dorian brightened up. “Maybe he went to undergo the Joining in Weisshaupt. That would be nice.” 

“I rather doubt it,” Livia murmured, having walked over to the workbench of neatly arrayed scalpels and tools, casting an eye over the sheaf of crabbed notes. “It looks like Livius was researching darkspawn.”

“You don’t say!” Dorian tipped his head at the jars of organs and the carcass. 

Livius rolled her eyes. “He was researching the _Calling_. Listen to this. ‘Day 45. Sent word to C. Confident that through lyrium amplification and a blood vector the Calling can be broadcast laterally through Fade-link’.” 

“A blood vector,” Dorian said, resigned. “Of course. Blood magic,” he explained, when Leonthius looked puzzled. 

“Who is ‘C’? Why can’t evil blood mages ever write down their plans in longhand?” Felix complained. “Locations and details would be nice!”

“Just get someone to go through all his things,” Dorian glowered at the dead darkspawn. “Broadcasting the Calling? That’s… not a good thing, right? Isn’t that what makes Wardens go stir crazy and take a long walk in the Deep Roads?”

“We could send word to Weisshaupt,” Felix said doubtfully. “I’ve got a couple of contacts there.” 

“Doesn’t seem connected to the Breach,” Leonthius commented. “If not for Livius’ disappearance.” 

“Maybe he’s taken it into his head to mess with the Wardens. If so, that’s hopefully none of our business, and the Wardens are very _good_ at making sure people who mess with them come to grisly ends.” Dorian said dismissively. “We’ll send a warning to Weisshaupt and wash our hands of it.” 

“Livius… isn’t the only Venatori-linked mage to have disappeared over the past few weeks.” Leonthius said finally, even as he pulled the sheet back over the dead darkspawn. “The disappearances were gradual at first, but they’ve been increasing in frequency over the last week.”

“What.” Dorian blinked. “ _How_ many mages have upped and left?”

“To the last count?” Leonthius noted thoughtfully. “Mm. I would say. Well over a hundred. Likely more. Their households, as well.”

“ _What?_ ” Dorian swung his stare towards Felix, who flinched. 

“We’ve only been keeping tabs on Senate members who seem to be Venatori-affiliated,” Felix said defensively. “A lot of our resources are still committed in Seheron, and rooting out Qunari-trained elven spies in the Imperium, remember?”

“That blasted pointless war!” Dorian groaned. “A Venatori exodus. Out of Tevinter?”

“It appears so,” Leonthius said calmly.

“Maker’s flaming arse! What are they doing? Singlehandedly invading the South?” Dorian rubbed a palm over his face. “So. The Temple of Sacred Ashes. It was us after all, wasn’t it?”

“Vivienne’s still on her way to take a look at it,” Felix said comfortingly. “Best not to leap to conclusions as yet.”

“It’s not a disaster,” Livia said thoughtfully.

“ _How_ is it not a disaster? Adding Venatori to the mess in the South is like pouring fat in the fire!”

“Well,” Livia noted calmly, “We could declare them all missing and seize all their assets under care of the Imperium. Use the resources to erode Venatori influence in the Imperium - and then in the Senate. Especially if the Venatori-leaning Magisters also decide to go on holidays in the South.” 

“… You’ve been spending far too much time with Vivienne,” Dorian said admiringly, even as Leonthius let out a harsh guffaw. 

“It won’t be a popular move,” Leonthius said gruffly. “But I’ll give you our list of names, if you want to make it.”

“So you want to make over a hundred new enemies,” Felix said, resigned. “All before Friday. How nice.”

“I want to make over a hundred new enemies _and_ seize their assets,” Dorian corrected. “Maybe that’ll make others rethink their little pilgrimage. And if anyone objects _too_ loudly, we can have them checked out.” He glanced again back at the darkspawn’s corpse. “Anything else that you’d like to share while we’re at it, Most Holy?” 

“Not at present,” Leonthius said, with a faint smirk. “I look forward to seeing you at Mass on Summerday, Archon.” 

With that, the Divine started clanking back up the narrow stairwell. Dorian rubbed the heel of his palm against his temple, gritting his teeth. 

“Just so you know,” Felix said blandly, “If you set fire to him, Vivienne’s going to be Displeased.”


	6. Chapter 6

I.

_Dearest Dorian,_

_This is a quick letter from Jader before I join this caravan train of merchants headed to Haven. Your decision to antagonise the entirety of the Venatori prior to consolidating your seat of power is perhaps ill-advised, but I understand the logic of having to act while the opportunity exists._

_To minimise possible fallout, I suggest naming Magister Maevaris the Imperial Executor of all the ‘abandoned’ properties. She served five years in the Legislate prior to that unfortunate incident in Ath Velanis, and will have the appropriate skillset, as well as the proper contacts. She has spoken out publicly against the Venatori, and is well-placed enough in influence to be a decent shield/scapegoat should your latest venture go awry. It doesn’t matter whether she is Livia’s sister. Remember, darling, there is no such thing as sentiment in politics._

_P.S. This letter will likely reach you on Saturday. Remember, you should be attending Magister Ciceron’s soiree on the morrow._

_Sincerely,_  
_Vivienne_

Dorian reread the letter, then sighed and burned it to ash, tipping the remnants out of the carriage window. Marnus Pell’s main export within the Imperium was fish, and a miasma of this lingered throughout the tidy little city no matter how much incense was burned or flowers grown along the neat little boulevards. It was, at least where Tevinter was concerned, a quiet city, with a small Circle that liked to keep to itself. 

“Have we sent word to Maevaris?” Dorian asked.

Opposite him in the carriage, Felix stirred, with a yawn. “Aye, I sent a raven before we left Minrathous.” 

“What did Livia think?”

“She hates the Venatori as much as her sister. She’s also fairly sure that Maevaris will accept.” 

“Does she know about the reason-“

“No,” Felix shrugged. “But I’m sure she can guess. House Tilani’s been playing the Imperial Game for as long as our Houses have been. Relax, Dorian. You’re in the most boring city in Tevinter to have a party! Just get drunk on the free wine and try not to throw up over your father.”

“You and Vivienne take the fun out of everything,” Dorian said, resigned. 

“Speaking of Vivienne, I doubt we’ll be hearing very much from her once she reaches Haven,” Felix commented. “The then-Left Hand of the Divine is now part of the Inquisition as its spymaster. She’s very good, by all reports.”

“You think that Vivienne will be found out?”

“Quite likely. And depending on how she spins the situation, she might be quiet for a while. Stop _worrying_ ,” Felix added. “She’s _very_ good at taking care of herself. I mean, she made it from Rivain to Tevinter when she was eighteen? Then somehow talked Father into taking her on as an apprentice?” 

“She was as frightening then as she is now,” Dorian said, resigned. “I’m fairly sure that she even frightened _Gereon_ from time to time.”

“Probably. Your parents too,” Felix pointed out. “Not even your father objected when you told him that you were going to marry her.”

“That’s more likely because he was utterly overwhelmed by the fact that I was finally willing to marry someone with a womb,” Dorian said dryly. “I could’ve told him that I was going to marry an _elf_ and he would’ve still been over the moon. Maker’s breath - is that a _giraffe_?”

Magister Ciceron’s party didn’t turn out to be as deathly boring as Dorian had thought after all: Ciceron had spared no expenses on the entertainment, and on the exotic creatures sourced from around Thedas to roam free in the villa gardens, any random fouling of the grass hastily cleaned up by the villa slaves. Dorian tried not to make it seem too obvious that he was looking out for a human male among the scurrying elves, but it seemed as though Ciceron’s human staff, slaves and servants both, were on indoor tasks for the evening. 

By the time Dorian had been introduced by the old Magister to everyone remotely important in the party, Felix had long abandoned him, and even Livia’s expression was growing a little long-suffering. Marnus Pell was quiet enough that a visitation from the Archon was clearly a landmark affair for its local nobility, and the degree of toadying going on was surpassingly obsequious even by Tevinter standards.

When the Argon Ram got tangled up in the Prophet’s Laurels, Dorian took the opportunity of the crowd’s distraction to sneak off to a quiet corner of the gardens for a breather. It was the vegetable patch, judging from the smell, but still, the air seemed cleaner than back in the rest of the gardens. 

“Tell me again why I decided to enter high stakes politics,” Dorian complained to a wooden-faced Livia.

“I think you wanted to move out of home,” Livia said dryly. “To the opposite side of the Nocen Sea from Qarinus, at that.” 

“Ouch.” 

“I do remember a young mage declaring that he wanted to change the Imperium.”

Dorian turned sharply. The Lord of Asariel, as was his habit, wore austere robes of deep maroon, tipped only at the hems with gold thread. Dragonleather gloves sheathed his arms in mottled scaling up to his cuffed sleeves, but they were the only outward affectation of wealth that Magister Halward Pavus wore: his robes were plain of chains of office or crests of service, but where he walked, as always, the patriarch of House Pavus wore a quiet, steely confidence as his mantle. 

“Father,” Dorian said stiffly. 

“Archon.”

“Oh, are we going to do that song and dance where we pretend-but-not-quite not to be related? I _love_ that game.”

Halward sighed. “Can we have this conversation someplace more pleasant?”

“If we walk back out there we’ll be snowed under by sudden acquaintances.”

Halward hesitated, then he sighed again, and stepped closer, hands folded behind his back. “How is Vivienne?” 

“Very well, thank you. She’s gone on a trip.”

“Yes,” Halward said pointedly, “I know. I can’t say that it was wise to let her go.”

“‘Let her’, you say.” Dorian blinked. “I think you’re under somewhat of a misapprehension there. I don’t ‘let her’ do things. She just _does_ them. You’ve _met_ Vivienne, Father.” 

“You should have dissuaded her. The South has always been a dangerous place to be a mage. It is worse right now. Until she bears you an heir-“

“ _Maker_ , here we go again-“

“It’s not a matter to be taken lightly,” Halward said mildly. “You need two children. One to succeed you as Archon, and one-“

“To carry on the family name, Senate seat, titles, someone to leave your collection of little dragon figurines to, yes, I know, Father.” 

Halward sighed. “Your mother and I have indulged you and your… habits… all your life, Dorian, but you do have responsibilities to your House.”

“You know,” Dorian said flatly, “ _Most_ parents in Tevinter would have been content with the fact that their child managed to become the Archon. But _no_. It’s not enough for House Pavus.”

“If you want to reform Tevinter, you’ll need a stable and long-term hold on your seat, Dorian. Change doesn’t come quickly: it’s worked out over at least a generation or more, and-“

“ _Whatever it is,_ ” Dorian interrupted, “Vivienne thinks that the hole in the sky is a bigger problem right now, and I agree. Maybe we can have this conversation again when she gets back. Actually, you could have it with her, and leave me out of the second go.”

“The Breach is…” Halward trailed off when Felix, of all people, emerged from the servant’s quarters, looking a little furtive, then startled when he recognised them all. “Felix?”

“Oh. Ah. Magister Halward. Pleasure to meet you again,” Felix coughed. “Um. Could I have a word with D… er, the Archon?”

“Of course.” Halward inclined his head.

“Wait,” Dorian said quickly. “Father, did you know Magister Livius?”

“All of us Magisters ‘know’ each other,” Halward said dryly. “We all have to gather to vote on matters now and then, if you recall. Why?”

“He’s been missing for two weeks…?”

Halward shrugged. “We weren’t friends. He wouldn’t update me on personal matters.”

“What did he update you on, then?” Dorian inquired testily. 

“Well, if you must know,” Halward said, a little puzzled, “We’re both art collectors, and he keeps an eye on the auction houses in Minrathous for items of interest, even as I keep an eye on those in Qarinus."

“What sort of things did he find ‘interesting’?”

“Darkspawn and Warden relics. It’s a very unusual avenue of art to collect, but I’ve known people with stranger tastes. We got acquainted when we were both bidding on a piece of old dragonscale thought to once belong to Dumat. A very rare collector’s item.” 

“Isn’t that sort of akin to… collecting fossilised hairballs?” Dorian pulled a face.

For the first time, Halward looked mildly offended. “Of _course_ not. It’s a piece of _history_.” 

“Well ah. Thanks, I guess,” Dorian said, when Felix made a frantic gesture. “Maybe we’ll speak again later. Father.”

Halward nodded, shooting Felix another curious glance, and retreated back up to the main party. “Thank the Maker you arrived when you did,” Dorian exhaled. “I was about to strangle him.”

“Was close,” Livia piped up, for the first time, having done her best statue impression the moment Halward had shown up.

“More _importantly_ ,” Felix said grimly, “Calpernia’s father? I’ve found him. He’s been dead for days.”

II.

In Tevinter, the party must go on, and as such, herding the guests, putting a game face on and such tended to be the usual response even in the face of an Archon being abruptly very interested in the highly suspicious demise of a slave. Magister Ciceron was a cantankerous old man who had been friends with Dorian’s grandfather, a fact that made him still studiously blind to Dorian’s new status: to the elderly Magister, Dorian would forever be a little boy with a tendency to accidentally set fire to shrubbery.

Sadly, trying to leave his father out of it was also impossible. As such, Felix and Dorian had to explain the matter of the Missing Venatori, the situation in Erasthenes’ villa and the disappearance of Erasthenes’ slaves to the Lord of Asariel and the Lord of Marnus Pell, something that would’ve been intimidating even if both men hadn’t, as it were, been present for most of Dorian’s life, even through the embarrassing bits at the front. 

At the end of it all, Ciceron breathed out irritably. “Is that all?”

“Ah-“ Dorian began, but Ciceron was already nattering on, cranky as ever.

“The disappearance of two Magisters - who quite likely if anything simply went on holiday - and the death of one of my slaves, and you raise such a ruckus? In my day, short of a full-blown assault by the Qunari, and _even then_ , the Archon would not see fit to inconvenience his Magisters and their households!”

Dorian took in a deep breath and counted silently in his head to ten, but thankfully, his Father chose at that point to intervene. “It is not so great a favour, Ciceron, allowing the boys to look around. It’ll be just like the Summerdays before. Even when I was his age.”

Ciceron raised his pale white eyebrows, scrunching up his narrow nose, then he blew out a deep sigh. “Oh, very well, Halward,” Ciceron said grumpily. “Only because this boy’s your get, and I also do know Gereon quite well. Poke around all you like, but _don’t_ upset my guests.” 

“Thank you ser,” Felix said hastily. “Very much appreciated.” 

“All this carrying-on,” Ciceron grumbled. “Can’t be having it. Elias!” 

Ciceron’s son and House Serapio’s only successor, Elias Serapio, was the First Enchanter in the Circle at Vyranthium. Elias was the spitting image of Ciceron when Ciceron had been his age, but other than that, he was mild and gentle where his father was all thorns. “Yes, Father.” 

“Keep an eye on the boys,” Ciceron said, giving Dorian and Felix the evil eye once more before pottering away, grumbling under his breath, leaving them all in his study. 

Elias waited until Ciceron’s footsteps could no longer be heard, then he cleared his throat. “My apologies, Archon. Father’s gout troubles him more of late, and it has shortened his temper.”

“Maybe we just shouldn’t have asked,” Dorian said, swallowing his temper. “But if you can shed any light on… what has happened at all…” 

“Ah yes.” Elias pulled a face. “Well. The deceased… that is to say, the slave known as Blasio… came into our employ when I was a child. A generational debt. His father was a merchant who loved to gamble: eventually, his vices caught up with him, his business collapsed spectacularly, and his family was sold on the block to pay his liquidators.”

“He had a daughter, a mage known as Calpernia?”

“Yes, Calpernia. Father allowed the girl to study as an apprentice in Vyrantium, with my students. She was a bright girl. Quite talented. But she knew that Father only allowed her to study insofar as to get her talent under control, after which he intended to sell her to Erasthenes, who had expressed an interest in acquiring a trained mage assistant at a very generous price.” 

“I bet she wasn’t very pleased at that,” Dorian said dryly.

“She was young. Sometimes, quite resentful. But she applied herself to her studies and seemed content enough when title was transferred.” 

“Did you ever check on her… afterwards?” Felix asked, consulting his notes.

“No.” Elias looked mildly surprised. “Why should we? The exchange had been made.” 

“The death of this man, Blasio,” Halward cut in, when Dorian took in another deep breath, “Surely even Ciceron can see that the magic used to weave it was forbidden.” 

For Blasio had been woven _into_ the limbs of a tree, in a far corner of Ciceron’s sprawling estates, and the tree had fed on him, wrenched his bones apart when it moved in the wind, little by little, until the man had died. Little branches had stitched his lips together, preventing him from crying out for help - or for mercy. Apparently his absence had been noted, but what with the furor over Summerday Eve party preparations, no one had really thought to investigate further.

“Yes.” Elias blanched. “ _I_ see that, rest assured. Something is indeed amiss. Why would Erasthenes wish ill upon a slave who didn’t even belong to him? The man must be quite mad!”

“Unless…” Felix hesitated. “Unless perhaps Calpernia wrote to Blasio. Confided some sort of detail, or sent _something_ , when she felt that Erasthenes was not quite right in his mind. Maybe that’s why Blasio was tortured and murdered.”

“That… makes a certain sort of ugly sense.” Elias frowned to himself. “You are welcome to his belongings and effects. It’ll all be in the servant’s quarters. I’ll have them brought here-“ 

“No need,” Felix cut in. “I want to have a look around there myself.”

“It is not seemly for the Archon to visit the servant’s quarters,” Halward said severely, when Dorian opened his mouth.

“Indeed. Young Felix can attend to it,” Elias said hurriedly. “We can wait here. I’ll call for refreshments.”

“I won’t be long,” Felix said comfortingly, and reluctantly, Dorian nodded to Livia. Felix and Livia excused themselves, heading briskly away, and Dorian made a show of slouching into Ciceron’s chair at his desk. Halward grimaced, but Elias smiled with the faint, indulgent smile with which he addressed lagging grades, curtains on fire and other young student shenanigans alike. 

Dorian _had_ missed his old tutor. _And_ the Circle. “How’s life in Vyranthium?”

“You know Vyranthium. We’re not quite at the level of self-absorption as Vol Dorma as yet, but we’re quite close. Books over politics, and all that.”

“Yes, I know,” Dorian said wistfully, for his time in the Circle had been some of the happiest years of his life. It had been a hard decision to apprentice himself out to Magister Gereon in Minrathous’ College, which he had done only at his father’s instigation.

“You could’ve become First Enchanter in time if you had stayed in the Circle, rather than going into politics,” Elias said, amused, and Halward sniffed.

“It’s never too late, I guess, if I get tired of this job,” Dorian said flippantly.

“ _Dorian_ ,” Halward chided.

“Yes, Father, I know, ‘not in public and not before the peons’.” Dorian winked at Elias, who laughed. 

“I’m glad to see that Dragon’s Roost hasn’t changed you any.” 

“It’s changed me plenty,” Dorian said facetiously, “I’ve since learned to expect the very worst at every corner. But even so, just as I thought that I might’ve seen everything, the sky breaks open in the South, the Venatori leave en-mass, for the Maker knows what nefarious purpose, and people go around murdering slaves by turning them into trees.”

“Never a dull moment,” Elias agreed.

“There is that.”

“How is the Lady Vivienne? She travelled through Vyranthium oh… three months ago, for Magister Diane’s musical salon. A most singular young lady.” 

“That’s one way to describe her,” Dorian said cheerfully.

“And, I would say, a better match for you than the Antias girl,” Elias said, with a grin at Halward, who sighed.

“Lady Minerva Antias is a very accomplished mage.”

“And House Antias is almost as rich as we are,” Dorian added. “Imagine all that we could’ve done together. We could’ve despised each other while lying on bags of gold coin, hand-feeding each other that delightfully expensive Orlesian ham that tastes of despair. Such a waste.” 

“She was but a suggestion,” Halward said mildly, “Your mother and I are content with Vivienne. A mage as powerful as she is will likely produce very gifted offspring.”

“Don’t mind him,” Dorian told Elias. “He’s been obsessed about me spawning ever since I was old enough to have this conversation with him.” 

“He let Vivienne run off to the South and its ridiculous war,” Halward complained. “Dorian, your mother’s growing quite concerned, and-“

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about the Lady Vivienne,” Elias interrupted blandly. “After all, she’s a rather more talented mage than your boy.”

Dorian groaned. “That hasn’t been proved!”


	7. Chapter 7

I.

Midday Mass was, admittedly, somewhat less boring than Dorian was used to, if only because Leonthius was resplendent in gold and silver ceremonial armour, his cuirass polished so brightly that it was probably blinding in direct sunlight, and Dorian had ever been fond of shiny things.

He wasn’t entirely surprised to be invited up to Leonthius’ office, afterwards, and it was some wariness that Dorian accepted, with a flippant remark about a chess rematch that he hoped would be sufficient to deflect attention, made as it was while Dorian was more or less surrounded by a knot of suspicious Magisters. 

Unlike the Dragon’s Roost, the Argent Spire was decorated along military lines, surprisingly austere. Having never been further than the Cardinalate above the sumptuous Cathedral of the Faithful, Dorian wasn’t entirely sure whether the minimal look was an affectation of the office, or an affectation of the new Divine. He rather suspected that it was the latter. 

It was with some hesitation that Dorian decided to mimic Leonthius’ gesture of confidence, leaving Livia outside the Divine’s office along with the Knight-Captain and entering alone. His own ceremonial robes of office were stuffy, and too heavy, and despite having cheated a little with some spells, Dorian was starting to sweat, his hands a little clammy over his staff.

Unlike his own office, which sat nearly at the top of the Dragon’s Roost, the Divine’s office was only a floor above the Cardinalate, and although it did have a view of the neat grounds of the Eternal Gardens beyond, the view wasn’t as nice as it could’ve been, with a bit more planning. The office was as austere as the rest of the Argent Spire, the table bare of the tectonic shifts of documentation that covered Dorian’s own, and at its side, the Divine seemed to be struggling with the buckles on his cuirass.

“A hand, please?” 

A little bemused, Dorian leaned his staff against a spare chair and stepped over to help. The tiny little buckles were fiddly, and Leonthius grumbled under his breath as Dorian worked on undoing the silver catches behind an ornate shoulderplate. 

“I don’t remember the previous Divine having all this gear,” Dorian commented.

“Yes, well, I said I would rather wear a pointless piece of armor than a dress.” 

“Regretting it now, are we?” Dorian asked playfully, before he could help himself. Under his fingers, even with the padded undershirt and mail, Leonthius felt like a solid mass of muscle, and this close, where Dorian could smell a faint musk under leather and warmed metal and oil, his mouth was starting to go dry.

“No. Even this badly made piece of junk would turn a blade if it had to.” Leonthius had stripped off his spiked gauntlets, dumping them on his desk, and was unbuckling his jewel-studded scabbard. “This blade, as well - it's useless. The balance is all off. Damned thing's not even sharp. All I could do with it is maybe beat someone to death with the flat of its blade.”

“But it’s very shiny and catches the light,” Dorian quipped, which got him one of Leonthius’ faint, sharp smiles, over his shoulder. 

“Yes, I know. The Grand Clerics had this whole getup made especially for today, and they are all mages to a hair. Useless sword, useless armour, but all very, very shiny.”

“And so very, very shiny you were, holding Midday Mass.” 

“I know.” There was a soft huff of laughter. “You weren’t exactly subtle about staring.”

Dorian knew that he should laugh this off, turn away the implication with wit and humour, but he took in a slow breath instead, as he tugged off Leonthius’ shoulder plate and set it on the desk. “Well. I’ve never hidden the fact that I like shiny things.” 

“Yes.” Leonthius’ voice seemed to drop, deepening, “I know.” 

Behind Leonthius’ back, Dorian took in a shaky breath. The room seemed charged, all of a sudden, with a wiry tension that had never been present even within their usual, borderline prickly exchanges. Dorian felt like the ground had moved, somehow, his footing now slippery, and in Tevinter, more often than not, this was a sign of a trap, not an offering. 

But still, he said nothing, his fingers lingering briefly instead on Leonthius’ shoulder, before Dorian stepped to the right to help with the next shoulder plate. “Felix and I found Calpernia’s father,” he said, wishing that the change of topic didn’t sound so jarring. “Dead. Blood magic, I believe.”

“So I have heard. What did you find in his effects?”

“Ah,” Dorian allowed himself a grin, “So you _don’t_ in fact know everything.”

Leonthius gave Dorian an irritated look. “Unfortunately, Magister Ciceron’s household is difficult to penetrate, and your spymaster’s done a fair job of cleaning up your own household of late.”

“I’ll pass on the compliments. We found nothing, actually. I was hoping that the man had squirrelled away some sort of clue of sorts, that maybe that’s why he was killed. But even if he had such a thing in the first place, it’s gone.” 

“What of his friends?”

“Didn’t really have any. Like father, like son: Blasio was a gambler, and an addict, at that. It’s why Calpernia was born into slavery. The generational debt from Blasio’s father could’ve been erased within Blasio’s own lifetime, without involving his own daughter.” 

“Slaves can’t own property,” Leonthius said thoughtfully. “What did he gamble with?”

“What else do they have to gamble with, but time? He gambled time.” The second shoulder plate joined the first, on the desk, and Dorian started to work with Leonthius on removing his cuirass. “Good God. Who _made_ this thing?”

“Probably a mage,” Leonthius said, though he smiled again, sharply. “I’ve set agents to tracing Erasthenes’ possible route. Unfortunately, the most recent, likely legitimate sighting was close to the Nevarran border, some time ago. He seems to be headed south.” 

“Along with the other Venatori. What a surprise.”

“Speaking of the Venatori,” Leonthius grunted, as the cuirass finally came free, and he could set it on the desk, “I hear that Maevaris plans on sailing to Minrathous on tomorrow’s morning tide.” 

“Correct as always. Spies in Qarinus?”

“Qarinus has the next biggest Chantry presence other than Minrathous. Naturally.” Leonthius sat down heavily in his chair, undoing the buckles on his greaves, and Dorian stared for a moment more before circling away, folding his arms and leaning a hip against Leonthius’ desk. “Good choice, by the way. Maevaris has been running a fairly subtle campaign against the Venatori for years, all by herself.”

“Glad you think so,” Dorian said, with a smirk. “At least I’m semi-competent, eh?”

Leonthius let out a sharp laugh, even as the greaves came off with a forceful tug. “All right, Archon. I apologise. My first impressions of you seem to have been somewhat incorrect.”

“ _Such_ a graceful apology.”

“You’re the son of Magisters, scions from two of the richest Altus Houses in Tevinter. You were born into a kind of wealth that not even half of your own Senate can dream of. When I first met you prior to a Senate gathering, you didn’t seem to take your role as seriously as you should. What was I to think?”

“That I was just a spoiled child bred to sit in the highest seat in the land and do little else but warm it?” Dorian asked, dryly. 

“Effectively, yes. You appoint childhood friends and your wife to your inner circle, seem mostly oblivious to the Venatori until recently - a faction that is a serious threat to Imperial Order - and one of your first acts as Archon is a futile and naive bid for peace in Seheron. Yes. What _was_ I to think?”

“Naive, hm?” Dorian growled, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t think bidding for _peace_ is ever a _naive_ sentiment. Everyone’s had enough of us being on that bloody island. And it’s not even a profitable occupation!”

“The Qunari only understand war,” Leonthius said shortly. “Either you fight them, or withdraw. Bidding for peace is just asking for more blood to be shed.”

“I’m _so_ glad that _I’m_ the one making foreign policy decisions in Tevinter.” 

“You’re soft,” Leonthius said blithely. “But I think you that _do_ mean well, and you _are_ … different. Every Archon says that they want to change Tevinter for the better. You… you actually _mean_ it.” 

There was respect in Leonthius’ wry smile, in the warmth in his eyes, and Dorian had to look away: it was either that or flush, and betray how his heartbeat was quickening. “Thank you for… realizing that I’m not a liar…?”

“And so,” Leonthius continued, ignoring his jibe, “I apologise. For before. I thought that I was being dragged along on a spoiled boy’s whims, into matters that he had no real means or interest in dealing with constructively. I was mistaken.” 

“That’s. Ah. Quite all right.” 

“As recompense,” Leonthius said earnestly, if still amused, judging from his smile, “Ask me what you like. I’ll be honest with you from now on. If you truly mean to face the Venatori with what influence you have, if you truly do mean to reform the Imperium, I would like to help.” 

Dorian hesitated. It was easy to start with business, and it was probably what Vivienne would have done. But Dorian had always trusted too easily, or so his father had said, and there was only one real question that had sat on his mind when he had first met Leonthius. 

“Why did you leave the South?”

Leonthius’ expression froze, for a moment, then he leaned back in his chair, with a harsh chuckle. “I suppose I did offer.”

“You did.”

“It’s a tawdry tale. I was a junior templar in Kinloch Hold. I watched over a Harrowing that went wrong. It’s a process that Southern apprentices go through in order to become full members of their Circles,” Leonthius explained. “The apprentice enters the Fade, and faces a demon. Should they be successful in resisting temptation, they become a full member. Should they not, or take too long, they are killed.”

“And they… _all_ have to do this?” Dorian blinked. “That’s barbaric! What does facing a demon have to do with studying magic?”

“It’s a question of testing resistance, apparently,” Leonthius said quietly. “No, they don’t all have to do this. They can instead choose to be made Tranquil.”

“That’s no choice at all!”

“I didn’t make the laws,” Leonthius shrugged heavily. “But moving on. It was my first time designated as a slayer - the templar whose job it is to deliver the killing blow. First time as a slayer. First time I killed anyone. She was…” Leonthius looked away, his throat working for a moment. “She was a friend of mine. Very young… we were _both_ so young, then. She took ‘too long’. I begged the Knight-Commander to give her more time, but he refused. Rules are rules, you see. She…” Leonthius trailed off, with a sigh.

“You were in love with her?” Dorian asked, gently, for this was an old wound that had not healed, judging from the tightening set of Leonthius’ jaw. 

“It was a long time ago,” Leonthius said shortly. “I stayed long enough to see her buried. Then I left.” 

“What was her name?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Leonthius exhaled. “Ask me another question, if you must.”

“Are you taking lyrium?”

Leonthius smiled. “Far be it for me to assume that you’ll ask easier ones. No, I’m not.”

“Then how are you… doing what you do?”

“It’s a discipline that can be studied by the few. Without lyrium.”

“In Tevinter?” Dorian blinked.

“I didn’t come to Tevinter immediately. I went to another Order first. They are called ‘Seekers’, in the South - the people who watch and judge the Templars. I was going to make a complaint about the Knight-Commander. In the end, I joined their ranks instead. I completed my training, gained my abilities and realized…” Leonthius hesitated. “I realized that nothing was going to change. That despite the beliefs of some within it, the Seeker Order was leashed to the Chantry, to the Divine, and the Harrowings, the Tranquil Rites… none of that would change. I was disillusioned, and left again, this time to Tevinter.” 

“That seems like a rather dramatic about-face, considering our reputation in the South.”

“Yes. I was curious: I wanted to see if unfettered mages were truly as horrific as the Southern Templar Order claimed. Chaos and blood magic and demons in the street, so they said.”

“Tevinter must have been so _disappointing_.”

“It’s not perfect. The slave system, your magisterium… power here belongs to the very few, and the wealth gap between the poorest of your citizens and the richest is ridiculous. But I think,” Leonthius said softly, looking Dorian in the eye, “That there’s a definite chance here, to begin to change Tevinter for the better. Unlike the South, Tevinter isn’t ruled by religion, which isn’t often dictated by logic. And the Senate, rife with dissent as it is, and corruption, and backstabbing, is still a better system than the monarchies in the South, which are often far too dependent on the strength and wit of a single person.”

“You’ve given this a great deal of thought.”

Leonthius nodded. “I’ve had a great deal of time to think this all through. Ever since I murdered a young girl in Kinloch Hold. Does that answer your question?”

“Aye, it does.” Dorian said soberly. “Last question for now, then. Do you play chess?” 

It was the right question to ask, judging from the dawning smile on Leonthius’ face, free of his usual guarded wit and caustic tongue.

II.

Mage-assisted winds made it possible to get from Minrathous to Qarinus in time for his mother’s name-day party, although it was a near thing, and Dorian was irritable and tired by the time his carriage arrived in his family estates.

Although technically within the city limits, the Pavus estates in Qarinus were large enough to be a small district within its own right. A crowning boulevard lined with stately, ancient silver oaks, transplanted at startling cost from the Arlathan Forest, swept through the huge grounds, past the small, separate quarters for the groundskeepers, tucked discreetly behind the carefully trimmed ‘woods’, past the intricate garden maze, the artificial lake, and the reserves, where a small herd of halla grazed, tame and friendly, and colourful, tame songbirds flit through the trees. 

His mother’s party was at the lake, as always. It was, after all, her favourite part of the estates, and several floating platforms of sweet-smelling alderwood had already been set up, connected by crystal bridges, all of it likely built just for the occasion itself and none other. Many of the guests had already arrived, members of the highest strata of Tevinter society, and his mother lounged in the midst of it all, holding Court, queenly in a blood-red gown. 

Dorian took in a deep breath to steel himself, sighed, and got out of the carriage, Vivienne’s gift in his hands. Whatever it was, it was light, and rattled faintly, and Dorian had been vaguely worried that he might have broken it on the voyage here, whatever it was.

Magister Julia Vergil greeted her only child with a kiss on his cheek, and waved Dorian gracefully to a seat on the bench beside her. She had been older by a handful of years than Halward when they had married, the youngest daughter of House Vergil, her father the Lord of Qarinus as well as its First Enchanter. Age had touched the edges of her eyes and wrinkled her brow, turned her heavyset rather than petite, but Julia was as imperious as ever. There was also obviously no love lost still, between his parents: Halward had made himself scarce, talking quietly with a handful of Senior Enchanters near one of the floating platforms.

“My darling,” Julia said absently, as she straightened Dorian’s collar. “It’s so very good of you to take the time to be here.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Dorian lied, and Julia laughed, not fooled in the least.

“Vivienne has taught you well.”

“Oh, I think we’ve taught _each_ other, actually,” Dorian grinned, just to make the clustered mages around them both titter and laugh, but Julia’s smile was artful in response, mirthless. “Happy name-day, Mother. Here’s a little something. Vivienne and I hope that you like it.” Dorian offered the gift.

“Most kind.” Without touching the present, Julia made a gesture, and a servant appeared at her shoulder, taking the gift from Dorian. “I’ll admire it later. For now, darling, perhaps we should be a little naughty, and steal away from my guests for a word?”

“Anything you like, Mother.”

“Sweet boy.” Julia made brisk apologies to her ‘friends’, and, rising, accepted Dorian’s offered arm with another artful smile. They walked away from the platforms, along the lake, her bony hand tight on his arm, Livia a few steps behind them. Dorian had left Felix to look after things in Minrathous, and now, vaguely regretted not insisting that Felix had come along. Felix had always been far better at dealing with Dorian’s mother than Dorian himself. 

“If this is about Vivienne going South, I’ve already heard the lecture from Father,” Dorian offered, when they were a little distance away from the party. 

“Actually,” Julia smiled again, thinly this time, “I’m not as concerned as your father about you spawning heirs. I trust you’d get around to it in time, and it’s not the best of situations to do it at present, even if there wasn’t a breach in the Fade. Your position in Minrathous is still fairly new, and unstable. As you are now, children are a liability.”

“Maybe you should mention that to Father…?”

Julia sniffed. “The man’s impossible, and you know it. That’s why I’m confident that you’d eventually bear at least one child, regardless of your preferences. If _I_ was willing to fuck your snake of a Father for the sake of succession-“

“Yes, Mother, I’m very grateful,” Dorian cut in dryly, rolling his eyes. He had spent much of his childhood as the mediating party between his parents, who were not so much married as embroiled in a constant, semi-hostile ceasefire. “I know you’d be a very good grandmother.”

“Oh please. Once was good enough for me. Keep your spawn away from me until it stops soiling itself and throwing up on others. Or, if it’s anything like you at all, until it stops accidentally setting fire to things around it.” 

“That was only a few times,” Dorian said mulishly. 

“Yes, and a few times too many, dear.” Julia pursed her lips. “I know your father asked you for two children, but you really should think of having one more. _I_ happen to be a Magister as well, something that _your_ father likes to forget - conveniently.” 

“I’m sure that you remind him of it at every opportunity.”

“Obviously. If there’s one thing I’d like him to carry with him into his dotage, it’s that _he_ didn’t choose to marry me, _I_ chose to marry _him_. But the whole ordeal’s turned out surprisingly all right. Well done on becoming Archon, dear.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you, Mother,” Dorian said dryly.

“Of course you couldn’t. Imagine where you would be if I’d left it all to your father to manage, as I was originally tempted to. You’d probably have run away from home by now. You used to have such _flaming_ rows with that man. I had to take him aside and tell him, if you drive our only child away from home, _I_ certainly refuse to go through the whole bother of pregnancy again, so it’s _your_ blasted legacy on the line. After that, he was slightly more bearable, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, Mother.”

One of the halla skittered over, hoping for treats, and darted away in disappointment when Julia made a shooing gesture. “I wanted to talk to you about the Venatori, actually.”

“Really?” Dorian asked, surprised. 

“I’m not entirely certain that it’s a very clever thing to do, dear, antagonising what is still a rather powerful voting bloc in your Senate. But I do approve of your choice of Maevaris as Executor. Yes, darling, I know, you haven’t announced it yet, but I _do_ keep my ears open.”

Dorian grimaced. A security leak somewhere was going to have to be patched. “Maevaris is very qualified, and-“

“She could be illiterate for all I care.” Julia cut in, and then she smiled, maliciously. “More importantly, the news has put your father in _such_ a mood since _he_ heard about it from me.”

“Father has a problem with Maevaris?” Dorian blinked. Actually, that wasn’t surprising in the least.

“Your Father has problems with many things, it’s too hard keeping track of all of them,” Julia shrugged, disinterested. “He’s also been wroth all of yesterday. I’ve hardly been so entertained in _years_. So, darling, thank you for the early birthday present… and for whatever Vivienne bought for me on your behalf, that lovely girl.” 

“… You’re… welcome, Mother.”


	8. Chapter 8

I.

Magister Maevaris Tilani arrived half a day late, on the back of a sea buffeted by stormy clouds and choppy waves, not a single golden hair out of place as she glided out of her ship and onto the docks. She smiled as Dorian strode over to greet her, her eyes frank and appreciative as she looked him up and down. Maevaris was taller than Dorian, with her high heeled boots, her dark blue gown dusted at the hem and cleavage with silver feathers, baring her shoulders, though her arms were sheathed to the elbows with fine silver gloves. Gold chains in red and white hugged the gown to her hips, the dress cunningly cut to give the hint of curves where there were none.

“Archon,” Maevaris greeted him, inclining her head. “What an honour it is to meet you again.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Dorian quipped, and winked when Maevaris laughed, husky and low.

“And my darling little sister. Dear Livia. I hope the Archon hasn’t been running you ragged.” Maevarus pursed her crimson lips, studying her sister in dismay. “And what in the Maker’s name are you wearing? That… that _thing_ is a disaster!”

“It’s functional,” Livia retorted, though she smiled faintly. “Welcome to Minrathous, sister.” 

“And this must be Felix Alexius.” Maevaris shook Felix’s hand, and grinned when he playfully lifted her wrist, brushing his lips over her knuckles. “Dear boy. You’ve grown so tall.” 

“And you’ve grown ever more beautiful,” Felix said gallantly. 

“We could stay here, exchanging pleasantries for ever,” Maevaris noted, “Or we could finish the rest of it in the Dragon’s Roost, perhaps, and get down to work.”

“Just a moment more,” Dorian said casually. “The Captain of the ship docked a ship away from yours is a spy of my father’s, and I’m planning on extending his discomfort for as long as possible.”

“Oh yes,” Maevaris said, amused. “I’m quite aware of your father’s opinion of me, Archon. There are, after all, just three of us Magisters in Qarinus - not counting the resident Grand Cleric - though your father really should be living in his own Holding. Asariel probably gets lonely for Magister Varen, all by himself.”

“Don’t look at me,” Dorian said dryly. “Building the current Pavus estates in Qarinus was a condition of the marriage contract between my father and my mother.”

“Since we have an audience,” Maevaris said slyly, “We might as well give him a show.” Before Dorian could react, she had leaned in, planting a kiss firmly on his mouth, and even as Dorian stiffened up, Felix stifled a yelp, and Livia let out a sigh.

When Maevaris pulled away, the spy was gone, and Dorian pointedly wiped his mouth. “I’m a married man, Magister,” Dorian said, though he smirked. 

“So I’ve heard. I’ve met your wife, as well,” she added, as she hooked her arm in his elbow and walked with Dorian to his carriage. “When she was visiting your parents in Qarinus, she came by my estates. We had a delightful dinner in my solar, and she invited me to tour the Arcanist Hall in Minrathous. I’m rather disappointed that she isn’t here.”

“You and my parents and everyone, it seems.” 

Felix got into the carriage with them, but Livia chose to ride alongside on her destrier, and as they startled to rattle back towards the Dragon’s Roost, Maevaris’ playfully flirtatious attitude dropped, when the curtains were drawn, and she leaned back in the cushioned seat. “You’ve chosen to pull the dragon’s tail, Archon, and I’m not entirely sure that you’re ready for the fire.”

“You and my parents and everyone,” Dorian repeated, with a sigh.

“But,” Maevaris added, “I can see why you need to act now. I have friends in the South, one of whom is quite close to the Herald, in fact, and he’s been giving me the occasional update. By the way, your wife arrived in Haven safely, and seemed to have decided against subterfuge. She’s a guest, and an advisor, and is assisting the Inquisition, but the spymaster is wary of her.” 

“That’s good to know,” Dorian said, knowing he couldn’t hide his relief even if he tried. He _had_ been worried. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Lady Vivienne isn’t out of danger yet. She’s being watched, and isn’t quite trusted. Not to mention that the Inquisition is having a little trouble holding its own. Its spymaster Leliana and its diplomat Josephine are excellent at their roles, but their Commander, Cassandra Pentaghast, is far better at her previous role as a Seeker than as a commander of armies. And besides, the South’s never been a safe place to be a mage.”

“Nor is Tevinter, technically, what with the games we play.” 

“The last I heard, it seems that the Herald is about to make plans to reconcile with the rebel mages, to use their abilities to close the Breach. Hopefully, that means that the gaping hole in the sky will be gone soon.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Felix noted.

“Let’s just say that I’m never in a mood of late to assume the best of anything,” Maevaris retorted. “Or of anyone. Apparently you’ve become quite friendly with the new Divine.”

“A few chess games now and then does not a best friend make.” Dorian said blandly.

“I don’t think you’re aware of how powerful he is. You, and most of the Senate, all of us so caught up in the Imperial Game that we see only a very narrow portion of our society. Have you any idea how incredibly popular Divine Leonthius is with the soporati? He’s the first non-mage to become the Divine… the first non-mage in the Magisterium. Some of them really _do_ believe that he is holy.”

“Well, that _does_ go with the title.” 

“Don’t be naive, Archon,” Maevaris said impatiently. “We of the Altus class sit on a skewed proportion of Tevinter wealth, and an extremely skewed proportion of power. Mages in Tevinter are vastly outnumbered by the soporati, and our dear ‘normal’ citizens aren’t all plodding farmers, remember? We happen to have a huge merchant class, many of them quite affluent, particularly as a collective group. And they have almost _all_ thrown their resources behind the Chantry, merchants and peasants all. Behind the new Divine. Have you never wondered why the Chantry now seems to have eyes and ears everywhere?”

Dorian looked pointedly at Felix, who flushed a little in embarrassment. “Ah. Well. I just thought they’d gotten rather more efficient-“

“Your own spymaster,” Maevaris cut in, with a sigh. “Tevinter isn’t just the war in Seheron and the politics in the Magisterium, boys. It’s everything else. You can’t be blind to the people when you ran on a reformist stance. Trying to right inequality isn’t a goal that you can get to with ideology alone.”

“Well,” Dorian said, blinking, “The Divine and I have the same goals. We both want reform. And-“

“And how far are you willing to go?” Maevaris interrupted again. “To the same situation as the South, pre-rebellion, where us mages were locked up in Towers, murdered when young if unable to pass a barbaric little test?” 

“It won’t go that far,” Dorian said firmly. “The new Divine _left_ the South because of its practices.” 

“Maybe he has some sympathies,” Maevaris allowed, “But I still think that what _he_ sees as an ideal Tevinter and what we’re all willing to accept is very different. Do you want a Tevinter with no more Altus classes, our wealth distributed to the masses?” 

“I want,” Dorian stated, a little testily, “At the very least, to remove the restrictions that prevent the elves from becoming liberati. I want the Publicarium to have a genuine say in how Tevinter is ruled. I want us to cede Seheron, and stop wasting our resources fighting the Qunari. And I definitely want to make it such that you don’t have to be born a mage to get an education. Abolition of slavery would be nice,” he added wryly, “But that’s a difficult hill to climb right now.” 

“The rest of your goals are also difficult hills,” Maevaris said, though she smiled faintly. “I still think perhaps that you are naive, and it would have been better if you had inherited your father’s cunning and your mother’s ruthlessness. But I’m glad to be here.” 

“Glad to have you on board,” Dorian nodded.

“How did you get a contact into the Inquisition before Vivienne?” Felix asked, with a certain professional curiosity.

“There’s a deshyr of the Merchant’s Guild who’s on good terms with the Herald. Used to be a cousin of my late husband.”

“So you really did marry a dwarf,” Felix blinked. “I thought Father was making a… well, I thought his words were ill-chosen.” 

“The match allowed me to forge an invaluable relationship with the Ambassadoria.” Maevaris sighed. “I do miss him, though, even if it was a long time ago. But that aside. When do we start upending the Venatori?”

“Why, right away, if you like,” Dorian grinned. “I have the deeds to Livius’ estate in my office. And more.”

“His estate in Minrathous might not be as large as what you would expect for the Lord of Carastes, but he _is_ an Altus. You don’t want to start small, I see.”

“There are other Erimonds around here and there. Just turn out an agreeable one from under a rock and leave Livius’ things to him. His Magister title, as well. I’ll name whoever it is to the Senate, and the ball will roll downhill as we like.”

“We start at the top, then.” Maevaris smiled sharply. “Watch your back, Archon, even as I’ll watch mine. Whenever a splash like this is made in the Imperial Game… the sharks will gather.”

II.

Appointing Maevaris to the position of Executor - and deciding to effectively confiscate and reallocate the estate of an Altus mage, a _Lord_ at that, created a week of uproar in the Senate, with Magisters debating back and forth whether the Archon had such powers in the Magisterium, the nature of the Venatori and whether they were even remotely illegal as a faction, and even, amusingly, the concept of abandonment.

Eventually, the vote split in Dorian’s favour, if by the narrowest of margins. As sickly Magister Mavrena cast her vote in favour of Dorian, breaking the deadlock and effectively making his decision law, Dorian silently made a mental note to somehow get a veritable arbour of flowers sent to Vivienne in Haven.

From his seat amongst the Grand Clerics on the first tier of the Arcanist’s Hall, Divine Leonthius offered Dorian a faint, almost friendly smile. Unsurprisingly, the Chantry bloc had all voted as one in favour of Dorian’s mandate, though they hadn’t offered a word of comment through the entire week, to Dorian’s irritation, not even the Grand Clerics. He _had_ been hoping for more aid from that sector. 

“It’s a good result,” Maevaris said, as they tarried beside the Speaker’s Grounds, the circular, bespelled dais which, whenever anyone walked upon its central rune, would project his or her voice neatly to anyone seated within the Arcanist Hall. 

“Nail-biting, I would say.” Dorian was going to have to check himself for gray hairs after this week.

“It’s good to see who in the Senate needs to be watched,” Maevaris shrugged. “And to be honest, I wasn’t sure if you had the influence to get this passed at all. Be glad that _both_ your parents are Magisters, and have a number of old friends.” 

“My own father voted _against_ me,” Dorian said sourly. That had been an ugly surprise. It was nice to see that sometimes Dorian could still be totally taken aback by the lack of sentiment from his own family. 

“That’s what I meant. Your mother, also a Magister, voted _for_ you, _and_ actually bothered to speak on your behalf-“

“-only to irritate Father-“

“-and House Vergil is just as influential as House Pavus. Vergil, Alexius, Varen, Mavrena, Amladaris and myself... and the four Grand Clerics and the Divine. Well done. Thankfully the rules didn't exclude me from being able to vote on this.”

“But Pavus _and_ Antias against, and all the non-Cleric Laetans, and the rest…? Not a great look.” 

“Like I said,” Maevaris noted, “Look beyond the Magisterium. The _entire_ Chantry bloc voted for you. Put a little word to the Divine, and they can spew propaganda on your behalf from all the pulpits in the land. Give you the popular mandate, along with the magisterial one.” 

“‘Spew’ is such an unkind word.”

Maevaris looked up, even as Leonthius stepped out onto the wide tier of steps leading into the Arcanist Hall, ambling down towards them, again alone, dressed in his usual black armour. Beside Dorian, Livia narrowed her eyes briefly, then relaxed, and looked away again. 

“So pleased to finally meet you in a less formal setting,” Maevaris purred, as Leonthius got closer. “I’m glad to advise that your arse has achieved mythical status in the Dragon’s Roost.”

“Maevaris!” Dorian growled. 

Thankfully, Leonthius only let out a startled laugh. “As long as the Dragon’s Roost thinks well of me in some way, I suppose.”

“Well, you _did_ vote for me. _Unlike_ my own father.”

“I’m surprised that you’re even hurt about that,” Maevaris said drily. “Considering the efforts you’ve gone to over the week to upset him.”

“I wasn’t even trying anything! I was… nice!” 

“Appointing me was probably provocation enough. Can we help you, Most Holy?”

“I merely came back here to offer a private word of congratulations,” Leonthius smiled sharply. “And, as Magister Tilani mentioned, an offer of help. We do indeed have many pulpits across the land. And favour is the least of what we can offer, in this little war.” 

“And the strings attached are…?” Dorian inquired, with a sharp smile of his own. 

“Spreading a positive spin on what happened today? Why, nothing. It’s not altruism on our part. It’s good for us, as well. But the rest… perhaps we can negotiate.” 

“How hard do you intend to twist my arm?” Dorian inquired, perhaps more playfully than he should: Maevaris shot him a calculating look, then glanced back at the Divine. 

“It’ll depend on how successful Magister Tilani and yourself are at this current task,” Leonthius began, then stopped, when someone else entered the Arcanist Hall. 

It was one of the Grand Clerics, a Laetan, a wiry old man with rheumy eyes and a mouth that seemed forever frozen into a wry, hesitant smile, under huge, whiskery gray brows. “Grand Cleric Emerlane,” Leonthius greeted him. “Is something amiss?”

“Merely getting into the queue to offer the young Archon my congratulations,” Emerlane said amiably. “Dear me, what a week! I haven’t seen such excitement in the Senate since the last Blight!”

“The Senate argued over whether or not to commit resources to defending Orzammar in the Deep Roads as the Ambassadoria requested,” Maevaris explained.

“The answer was ‘no’, I presume.”

“A compromise, actually,” Emerlane corrected. “We would defend the Ambassadoria, and their trade routes to Orzammar through the Deep Roads, but no more. But that’s all old history. Congratulations on the vote, Archon.” 

“I’ll have a word with you later, ser,” Divine Leonthius said, polite now that a minder was about, and Dorian grinned, about to offer some quip in response, when Emerlane’s hand darted abruptly into one of his voluminous sleeves, pulling out a vial-

It was Livia who saved them. She lunged forward, staff swinging, the haft slapping hard on Emerlane’s wrist, batting the vial up and into the air. Dorian instinctively pulled the threads of Time around him, drawing from the Fade to reshape himself within it, and the world around him slowed: Emerlane’s wince, Leonthius’ hand dropping to his blade, wide-eyed in surprise, Maevaris’ palms, going into the air, about to draw up a barrier. 

In the gray world of slow time, Dorian reached up, plucked the vial out of the air, and stepped back. 

Time unfroze to normal speed all in a rush. Livia swept her staff in a tight arc, knocking Emerlane’s knees out from under him. Leonthius looked up to where the vial had been, blinked, glanced over at Dorian, then clenched his free hand in the air as Emerlane started to shape a spell, silencing him with a rush of… _something_ that Dorian could nearly sense, like the Fade stitching up in a pocket, all around Emerlane.

The amiable look on Emerlane’s face was gone, twisted in hatred. “Soporati on the Argent throne, a brat in the Dragon’s Roost - kill me then! There are legions more of me-“ Emerlane’s words choked off into a gurgle, as Leonthius stabbed him through his chest with his blade.

In the stunned silence, Leonthius twisted his sword, killing Emerlane, then wiped it off on the Grand Cleric’s robes. He raised an eyebrow when Livia backed a step, placing herself between Maevaris and Dorian, bladed staff upraised. “I’m on your side,” Leonthius said dryly. 

“Your… but…” Dorian blinked. “But he voted for me!” 

“I told you,” Leonthius said firmly, sheathing his blade, “The Venatori are a problem for everyone. Even the Chantry.”

“We could have interrogated him,” Maevaris scowled. “You killing him outright doesn’t look good, ‘Most Holy’.”

“There’s no point interrogating the Venatori mages,” Leonthius shot back. “As you should know, Magister.” 

She narrowed her eyes, and at Dorian’s inquiring look, Maevaris sighed. “They’re all self-warded. Sometimes it’s a messy business. But the Divine does have a point. What was that thing that he threw up on the air?”

Dorian studied the potion. “Livia, that’s enough, put down your weapon. It’s a… I’m not entirely sure, actually. Potions aren’t my forte.”

“Give me that.” Maevaris took it from Dorian, frowning at the colour, and the strangely reddish hued sediment. “Whatever it is, it has dragonstone in it. A great proportion of it. Mixed with… sela petrae, I think. And some sort of quickener.” 

“A grenade,” Livia supplied grimly. “That old man could’ve gotten rid of the new Archon and the new Divine, all at once. All it took was a vote in your favour to get your guard down.”

“But not yours, I see.”

“I don’t trust anyone,” Livia said shortly, and eyed Leonthius pointedly. “Can you clean this up? It’s _your_ mess.”

“I’ll arrange it.” Leonthius eyed Dorian soberly. “Watch your back, Archon. We’ll speak again soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magisterium (Upper House: Senate):  
> Asariel - Halward Pavus (Lord of Asariel, resident in Qarinus), Varen  
> Carastes - ~~Livius Erimond~~ (Lord of Carastes, Resident in Minrathous), Caius (Partly Resident in Minrathous)  
>  Marnus Pell - Ciceron Serapio (Lord of Marnus Pell)  
> Marothius - Emilia Krayvan (Lord of Marothius), Juno  
> Minrathous - Gerion Alexius [Archon Dorian Pavus is Lord of Minrathous], ~~Erasthenes~~ , Divine Leonthius  
> Necromenian - Praeter Gallus (Lord of Necromenian), Laetia  
> Perivantium - Irian Amladaris, Cecilia Mavrena (Lord of Perivantium), ~~Fabiana (Deceased)~~  
>  Qarinus - Julia Vergil, Maevaris Tilani [First Enchanter Vergil is Lord of Qarinus]  
> Solas - Arron Antias (Lord of Solas)  
> Vol Dorma - Zaldereon Antonidas (Lord of Vol Dorma, Dragonologist Fredrick’s friend)  
> Vyrantium - Diane Vyrantus (Lord of Vyrantium)
> 
> … and 4 Grand Clerics (Now 3)
> 
> Altus Houses: Pavus, Erimond, Serapio, Krayvan, Alexius, Gallus, Amladaris, Vergil, Tilani, Antias, Antonidas, Vyrantus, Mavrena
> 
> Publicarium (Lower House: Senate): Bureaucratic, elected
> 
> I see that wiki notes that the Archon is also part of the Magisterium, and presumably votes as well on matters (...?) In this case, though, since the motion was put forward by Dorian, he had to sit it out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone! Special interlude.

I.

_Dearest Dorian,_

_Thank you for the lovely Heart Day surprise. Somehow, Varric secretly arranged for Orlesian roses in red and pink to be constructed into an arbour overnight in the courtyard of Skyhold, -and- also arranged for bards to serenade my window in the morning. It was all very lovely. However did the Orlesian florist manage to switch all the leaves into crystal? There was such a beautiful sound, when the wind came._

_I’ve also since been invited to the war room councils, between the Inquisitor and her inner circle, in my role as a foreign dignitary: that little Heart Day project seems to have well and truly solidified my position - and Tevinter’s - within the Inquisition. Varric made no secret of where all the funds were from: or of the ’no cost too great’ part of the gift: I sense perhaps Maevaris’ touch in this. We’ve shown that we’re capable of reaching further than our own borders. Very clever, dear._

_Congratulations also on your narrow victory in the Senate. It’s nice to see that the Houses I’ve been cultivating over the last few months have stood firm, and it’s good to see which Houses we’ll have to work on in the future. I’ll also have to personally visit your mother upon my return to Tevinter. Did you know that there’s such a thing as a golden halla? Perhaps we can arrange for one to be acquired from Arlathan. It’ll make a nice addition to her little collection. Look into it, will you?_

_As to matters in the South, perhaps you’ve already heard, but things have been quite… interesting. We recruited the mages, with a narrow margin to spare before the Venatori arrived to approach them. Fiona chose to side with us than with them - though I had to lean heavily on her, and keep reminding her that her fellow elves are all slaves in Tevinter. Although roads are still difficult in the South because of the Inquisition’s shaky military presence, we’re closer to Redcliffe, where the rebel mages were holed up, than Tevinter is, thankfully._

_We closed the Breach with the help of the mages, but unfortunately Haven was sacked soon after, and we all had to flee to Skyhold, an old stronghold in the mountains. The creature behind the Breach is known as Corypheus, apparently once one of the Tevinter magisters who entered the Fade before the First Blight. Again, unfortunately, he’s quite obviously a darkspawn of some sort, and what’s worse, he’s corrupted the Southern templars, -and- a dragon, giving it the look of an Archdemon. Sentiment against Tevinter is not quite good in the South at present, and yes, I will be watching myself._

_At present I do not believe that it would be worthwhile sending military forces of our own to assist, and show that there is a ‘good’ Tevinter, as you suggested. Getting our forces through Nevarra would be a painful exercise in diplomacy, at the very least. No matter. I’ve been invited to a number of Orlesian salons from the nobility here, which I may choose to attend. The effect will be the same: diplomatically._

_We are, at present, working on reinforcing Skyhold, as well as investigating the Venatori presence in Orlais and Ferelden. Somehow, Corypheus has to be killed: apparently, the Hero of Kirkwall did it before, but Corypheus returned from the dead. A topic best discussed with Vol Dorma: Do look into this, darling, and get Gereon Alexius to set people to researching Corypheus in the College records. Perhaps your old friend Elias can help, as well._

_Our social obligations over the next month include:_  
_\- Diane Vyrantus’ name-day celebration, in Minrathous, on Thursday. I have arranged for a gift to be made, it should arrive in the Dragon’s Roost in time, but perhaps it is now insufficient for our purposes. Have Maevaris arrange for something more lavish to be made. Be pleasant to the old bird: she probably voted the way she did simply because she’s a friend of Ciceron’s._  
_\- Deshyr Grunmar Stonefist’s soiree, in the Great Enclave in Minrathous, on Friday. Do attend with Maevaris, and ensure that you are seen publicly congratulating Grunmar on the inroads he has made in reconnecting Tevinter to Kal-Sharok._  
_\- Attend Arron Antias’ youngest daughter’s debutante ball on the Monday after. I know you despise that entire family, but given how they voted in the Senate, you should try to make some sort of peace offering. Offer to broker a marriage between the youngest daughter and whichever Erimond you intend to raise to the Lordship of Carastes and the rank of Magister. Naturally, ensure that said Erimond scion is male and unmarried._

_Sincerely,_  
_Vivienne._

Dorian rubbed a palm over his face for a moment, then put the letter back into his robes. It had been delivered personally by Felix while Dorian and Maevaris had been in the ballroom commandeered by Maevaris as part of her new role as Executor, and they stood on a mezzanine office, overlooking the ballroom floor in the Dragon’s Roost, now teeming with clerks and paperwork. 

“It seems the South managed to get even _more_ insane,” Dorian told Maevaris, who smiled thinly.

“Yes, I did get an update from Varric.”

“Have word sent to your Father and Elias about this ‘Corypheus’,” Dorian told Felix, then hesitated. “Oh, and send word to deshyr Barin Hammerhand, tell him we’ll pay him handsomely if he could find a way to acquire a golden halla. And… Maevaris, would you know what would be an appropriate bribe-present for Magister Vyrantus?” 

“I know just the thing,” Maevaris wrote down a name and an address on a scrap of paper, and handed it to Felix. “Tell the merchant that we’ll be wanting one of his sharp-tails.” 

Felix pocketed the note, and clattered down the stairs to the ballroom, threading through the circles of clerks briskly. “Sharp-tail? A dracolisk? _That’s_ the old biddy’s weakness?”

“She’s mad for them,” Maevaris said, amused. “Breeds them on a specially constructed ranch in her Vyrantium estates. I know she’s been trying to acquire a purebred sharp-tail for a while.”

“Why didn’t she just buy one from your friend?” 

“Oh,” Maevaris said lightly, “Ironhammer doesn’t like selling to Magisters save where absolutely necessary. Other than to me, of course.” 

“Dwarves sound like great friends to have.”

“Most of the ones we’ll ever meet, as part of the Ambassadoria, are mercenary to a fault,” Maevaris noted distractedly. “But if you can ever acquire their friendship… as a people, they’re often just as fiercely loyal. Even the worst of them. Stonefist has a soiree in the Grand Enclave-“

“Yes, I know. Apparently I’m meant to be there.” 

“We’ll go together,” Maevaris decided, “If you like. Oh, and Archon, while you’re at the soiree, you should congratulate Stonefist on his-“

“-efforts with Kal-Sharok, yes.”

“Good,” Maevaris said admiringly. “Maybe you’re fitting into your role after all. As you’re no doubt aware, Stonefist and his cartel are one of the lynchpins of the lyrium trade. And if you can influence the lyrium trade…”

“I’ll have the Senate by their balls?”

Maevaris pulled a little face. “I wouldn’t put it that way. But yes indeed.” She glanced up as a messenger entered the hall, heading briskly through the mess and towards them, a long black box in his hands. Livia stepped over to the base of the steps to intercept him, taking the box, having a quiet word, then dismissing the man with a wave. She scanned the box, opened it, then closed it again, heading up the steps and passing it to Dorian.

“For you, Archon.” 

The box was light, and made of sturdy, black textured paper. Puzzled, Dorian pulled the lid off, and found himself looking at a single long-stemmed red rose, leaves and thorns still intact. Carefully, he prodded one of the leaves, but nothing happened.

“A normal rose,” Livia supplied dryly, as Dorian set the box down gingerly on the messy desk, half-expecting it to implode on contact. 

“Yes, exactly,” Dorian said suspiciously. “Who in the world would send me just _one_ normal rose? With no card or note?”

“It’s Heart Day,” Maevaris said, amused. “Maybe you have a secret admirer!” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Who in the world would send their object of affection, who happens to be an Archon, just one rose? I would expect rubies, at the very least, or for the rose to be made of crystal! This is so… so un-Tevinter!” 

Maevaris’ eyebrows rose, then she grinned, a sharp and mischievous grin. “Who indeed.”

“It’s probably some sort of joke.” Dorian prodded the rose again, this time against the stem. “Or a trap. I’ve never seen a single rose before in my life. Do florists even sell them singly? Is it a message?”

“You’re overthinking things,” Livia said dryly.

“It’s the nature of my job. Get Felix back here. I want to find out where, and who, this was from.”

“Now you’re overreacting,” Maevaris pointed out. “Lighten up. Leave it be. We’ve got far more important matters to attend to. Have a look at this ledger. If we transfer the assets from-“

II.

Someone, probably Maevaris, had arranged for the single rose stalk to be put in a thin vase of water at his desk, and Dorian glowered at it, distracted all through his meetings with the Publicarium and even after, while talking to Grand Cleric Octavia. The wrinkled old biddy had stopped, smiled with condescending patience, and said, dryly, “Something on your mind, Archon?”

“Far too many things on my mind, actually,” Dorian volunteered. “My apologies. You were saying, about the next Sunday sermon?”

Annoyingly enough, Octavia was looking at the rose. “A secret admirer? This doesn’t seem like the sort of token that you would receive from Lady Vivienne. I met her… oh, four months back, I think, in Lucilla’s name-day party. Such a charmer.”

“More of a prank, I think.” 

“Oh, I doubt it. There’s a language to flowers, Archon. A blue rose for eternal love, pink and red for enduring partnerships, yellow for jealousy… but a single red rose? In Tevinter, that’s a broken promise.” 

“… I don’t think I broke any promises lately,” Dorian said, blinking. “I would remember that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps the sender wasn’t quite aware of the message. In the South, after all, the language of flowers is quite different. But to go to so much effort to get the flower through your security and to you? That’s an interesting Heart Day riddle.”

Dorian scowled. “Let’s just go back to the topic of normalising our messaging, Grand Cleric.” 

Irritatingly enough, the old biddy’s words stuck, and Dorian was still glaring at the rose when she left, and Felix let himself in. “Father says he’s going to convene all the Chairs in an emergency meeting tonight, and then allocate research tasks personally. I’ve also sent a letter to Vol Dorma. The Colleges are quite competitive, so hopefully that’ll speed things up… Dorian? Are you listening?”

“Hm? Yes. Sent a message to your father and Vol Dorma, yes.”

“Just set that thing on fire and be done with it, if it’s annoying you that much,” Felix sighed. “Look, the clerk who sent it got it from the mail room, where it’d been stamped for priority, your-eyes-only. No one in the mail room remembers that box.”

“So… it’s a mystery after all?”

“Or, more likely,” Felix said dryly, “Your secret admirer is a clerk in the mail system.”

“The Grand Cleric said that one rose meant a broken promise.” 

“If someone wanted to mail you a threat, I’m pretty sure that he or she would’ve… sent a dead fish, or something, not a flower. Especially if they’ve gone to all that trouble to make it untraceable.” 

“I hate mysteries,” Dorian muttered, and reached out, burning the flower with a gesture to ash. 

Unfortunately, this made his office smell strange, so Dorian retreated back to the ballroom, where Maevaris was looking harassed, mediating an argument between two little teams of clerks. She waved them to the mezzanine office when she saw Dorian approach. “Livius’ bookkeeping is atrocious. We’ve also had several members of his family put in claims for various items in his estate.” 

“Let’s just appoint his successor posthaste and let him deal with it.” Dorian hesitated. “By the way, Vivienne said I should try and broker a match between whoever it is and the Antias girl.”

“Antias? That’s going to be hard sell, even if Caelestis is one of several Antias daughters.” Maevaris pursed her lips. “Antias is one of the richest houses, after all, and although Erimond’s seat comes with the Lordship of Carastes, it’s not as wealthy a house, in comparison, particularly since Erimond stripped down the wealth into travelling expenses and mercenaries.” 

“So… I shouldn’t try?”

“Oh no, by all means, try. But it means I’m going to have to think carefully on the matter of succession.” 

“We could offer a second peace offering,” Dorian noted. “I could ask Arron Antias to submit a suggestion, which would be very seriously considered. Call him to Dragon’s Roost for a consultation, perhaps.” 

“Maybe. Better than springing it on the old man during the debutante ball, at least. Maevaris glanced between Felix and Dorian. “Did something happen?”

“Dorian’s in a bad mood,” Felix said blandly. “That rose.”

“What? Was it a trap after all?”

“No, it was a normal rose. Also, he set fire to it,” Felix said, a little accusingly. 

Dorian flapped a hand dismissively at his spymaster. “I just don’t like mysteries.”

“There’s no mystery to it,” Maevaris shrugged. “That wasn’t something grown by a florist, or prepared by one. Some of the leaves were yellowed, and one was worm-chewed. It could have come from the Grand Proving Arena, but those are carefully tended by mages, as are the private gardens about Minrathous. The only place a rose could’ve grown so large, but left mostly untended, is in the Eternal Gardens, which are open to the public.” 

“You… know your flowers,” Felix blinked. 

“I majored in botany in the Circle at Qarinus,” Maevaris retorted.

“ _Botany_?” Dorian echoed.

“Potions,” Felix guessed. “Right?”

“Experimental natural potions, yes. I was particularly interested in studying ancient Arlathan techniques. But _yes_ , Archon. I’ll bet you my new title that the rose you received was cut from the Eternal Gardens.” Maevaris smiled thinly. “Maybe your new admirer is a soporati.”

“That’s… ridiculous.”

Ridiculous or not, to Dorian’s continued irritation, after the evening bell was rung, he took the carriage out to the Eternal Gardens, trailed by Livia and his usual personal guard, all of whom seemed mildly confused that the Archon had abruptly decided upon a nice walk in a public space. 

The Rose Garden was a splendid set of tidy little hedges, ringed by neat marble benches, flowering with roses of multiple hues. Heart Day couples stared at them, startled, or scuttled hastily away, and Dorian walked a circle around the Garden before finally noticing a cut stem, close to the exit of the Garden, the stem recently cut with a sharp knife. Judging from the look of the surrounding flowers, this was probably it. 

“Mystery deepens?” Livia asked dryly. “‘The Case of the Single Red Rose’. Write it into your memoirs.”

“Oh, shut it.” A Chantry message? But Dorian hadn’t even started negotiating with the Chantry yet-

“Archon?” The Divine was approaching, striding towards them across the Eternal Garden, his Knight-Captain behind him, no doubt attracted by the sudden hubbub Dorian’s presence had caused in the Gardens. 

“Ah… Divine Leonthius.”

“What brings you to the Eternal Gardens?” Leonthius asked curiously. “Business… or pleasure?” 

“Just satisfying a little whim,” Dorian said, as casually as he could. “Someone sent a prank to me today. A component was acquired from the Eternal Gardens, I think.”

“A prank… a trap?”

“No, no. A prank.”

Leonthius looked bewildered for a moment, then, to Dorian’s surprise, he suddenly smiled, rueful and wry. “May I have a private word, Archon? My office.” 

“Of course.” 

Just as before, they left all their guards to amuse themselves outside, as Dorian followed Leonthius into his office, and on the way up, Dorian had formulated six different possible reasons behind Leonthius’ strange little smile, and had come upon the most logical - and the most difficult to accept.

When the door closed behind him, Dorian asked, dryly, “The rose was from you?”

“Aye.” Leonthius actually flushed a little, though he met Dorian’s stare. “It was just a thought.” 

“What promise did I break?”

“Promise?” Leonthius repeated, bewildered again. “You haven’t broken any promises yet. You haven’t even really made any.”

“Grand Cleric Octavia was lecturing me about the language of flowers this morning.”

“So that means… here?” Leonthius laughed, rueful again. “I should’ve asked around beforehand.” 

“Why,” Dorian said, daring to step closer, up into Leonthius’ personal space, because he _did_ love shiny things, and it was Heart Day, and there was, yes, a certain _thrill_ , to being so close to a man to whom his magic could do nothing. “What did you mean, then?”

A gloved hand pressed tentatively over Dorian’s hip, then curled down to the small of his back, and Maker, that leonine confidence, that smile. “In Ferelden a single red rose means honesty. It is a gesture. An offer.”

“Divine Leonthius-“

“When we’re… when it’s just us, like this,” Leonthius interrupted softly, “I would prefer you to call me ‘Cullen’, Archon.”

“That’s not my name either,” Dorian whispered, as he leaned over, still hesitant, with the stop-start of subtle reaching between them both, a slow unfurling step, as they kissed, close-mouthed, with an uncertain tenderness, as Dorian pressed his palms over Cullen’s breastplate; then he groaned as Cullen crushed him closer, a hand closing tightly over the back of his skull. This time, they kissed each other breathless. 

“So,” Dorian murmured, when they broke, foreheads pressed together, “You _could_ have left a note.”

“I was going to mention it in passing. Maybe. The next we met.”

“‘Maybe’?” 

“I was fairly sure you wouldn’t even notice,” Cullen said, with a wry, huffing laugh. “I didn’t realize you would take it _this_ seriously, Arc… _Dorian_. Besides,” Cullen added, this time with his gorgeous, faint smirk, “You figured it out.” 

Dorian rubbed his palms up, to Cullen’s unyielding arms. “I didn’t even think you would be interested in something like this.” 

“Are you fishing for compliments?” Cullen asked, though he smiled as he said it, and kissed Dorian’s forehead. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Dorian, but when you walk into a room, _everyone_ looks you over. For a good reason.” 

“I meant… nevermind what I meant.” Dorian tipped Cullen’s chin down, taking another kiss. “This is _so_ ill-advised. I can’t even begin to describe it.”

“I know,” Cullen said, and this time, his smile was sharp as a knife, pulling a gritty pulse of lust through Dorian’s blood. “That’s why it’s worth doing.”


	10. Chapter 10

I.

The Grand Enclave technically served as Minrathous’ dwarven embassy, and as such was fully underground, lit by magelights settled cunningly behind dwarven carvings of long-dead paragons and friezes depicting the ancient pact between Archon Darinius and the dwarven Kings Orseck Garal and Endrin Stonehammer. The doorways were narrow, the archways blocky, but like most dwarven architecture, the corridors were wide, enough for three carriages to pass abreast, the chambers huge and high-ceilinged. Dorian had never been particularly sure why the dwarves, as a race, tended to love scale and grandeur in all their forms.

The House of the Speaker was really a gigantic, artificially hollowed out space that was easily as large as the grounds of the Argent Spire itself, a huge amphitheatre of stone steps that led down to a perfect circle, usually empty of furniture, its surface an intricate pattern of tiny mother of pearl mosaic tiles in different subtle shades, depicting the lifting of the siege of Marnus Pell by the dwarves in the Fourth Blight.

Today, the space was filled with dignitaries, with trestle tables of food and drink set up, laden with delicacies from both the Imperium and the dwarven empire. The mingling guests included mages, some members of the Publicarium, a number of merchant soporati, and the Ambassadoria, most of them resplendent either in robes or in ceremonial armour that Dorian would wager was just for show. 

Deshyr Grunmar Stonefist was easy to pick out. A little taller than the other dwarves, he was wearing a heavy-looking set of armour, gold-edged and gorgeously tooled with blocky golem patterns, his thick reddish beard braided intricately with white gold beads, each picked out with runes. Grunmar smiled broadly when Maevaris and Dorian approached, striding over to greet them, clasping Dorian’s hand with a vice-like strength.

“Archon! Always an honour t’meet you.”

“It is my honour,” Dorian corrected, with as charming a smile as he could manage, using a little trick to amplify his voice a touch, “To meet the dwarf behind the mission to reconnect Kal-Sharok to the world.” 

Grunmar laughed, booming and hearty, even as around them, dwarves and mages alike watched them with curiosity. “Glad t’see that the Archon has an interest in such a thing!” 

“It’s been shown to me of late that a dwarf is one of the best possible sorts of friend to have, Deshyr,” Dorian said, a little playfully, “Why wouldn’t I have an interest in meeting a whole new thaig of them? If I could assist you in your endeavours, let me know.” 

“Well,” Grunmar’s eyes twinkled, but there was calculation in his smile, and an old politician’s humour. “That’s generous of you, and ’tis an offer that I might just take up. I’ll see what plans I can rustle up, and get word to your office within the week.” 

“Glad to hear it.”

“And the ever-lovely Magister Tilani,” Grunmar kissed the back of Maevaris’ gloved hand, as it was offered. “Always a pleasure to meet you, my dear.” 

There was, to Dorian’s surprise, a touch of heat in Grunmar’s tone, a little avarice in his eyes as he looked Maevaris over: but she _was_ glorious today, in an iridescent dress that seemed to have been picked out of thousands of feathers, from tiny, downy-soft ones at the cleavage to sweeping slender tailfeathers at the hem, their crimson tips brushing the stone, dusted with tiny pearls. A nest of enchanted chain rested around Maevaris’ bared shoulders, around her neck, the chain itself invisible, such that it looked as though a miniature constellation of multicoloured stars was floating over her skin.

“Darling Grunmar,” Maevaris purred. “Your parties are always such a delight.” 

“Then you should come to them more often.”

“Sadly,” Maevaris sighed, a little theatrically, “Qarinus keeps me so busy. But the Archon has summoned me to Minrathous to work, and work I will, but at least it makes it easier to attend your little fetes.” 

“So I’ve heard!” Grunmar’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I do hope he ain’t pushing you too hard.” 

“Why, my dear,” Maevaris smiled, sleek and a little predatory, “I do so love to be pushed.” 

This time, when Grunmar laughed, his cheeks had a touch of colour to them, and Dorian grinned to see it. When the deshyr next spoke, he lowered his voice a little. “The Ambassadoria’s been talking over what happened in the Senate,” he said quietly. “Personally, a lot of us are all for just letting you humans sort it out yourself. Imperial matters, Imperial affairs, eh?”

“But what do you think, Grunmar?” Dorian asked. 

“Eh,” Grunmar grunted. “I’ve got Publicarium and other soporati down in me party right here, don’t I? I’ve lived in the Imperium most of my life, and my father before me: I only go back to Orzammar when I have’ta vote for something. Bhelen and I have the same views. The Surface ain’t all that bad. Surface folk ain’t that bad, neither. Though a return to what things were before would’ve been good money for us lyrium traders, money ain’t everything.” 

“I’m… glad to hear that,” Dorian said warmly. 

“Why, Grunmar,” Maevaris purred. “Don’t let your other Noble-caste lyrium trader friends hear you say that.”

“I know, aye?” Grunmar grinned. “Or maybe I’ll be back to just trading for nugs in no time. So. The Ambassadoria’s probably going to make a decision soon, and I believe it’s going to be one of non-interference: as per normal. But what I can do for you, Archon, is to maybe slip you a little hint, now and then, whenever someone of note maybe buys a great deal of lyrium from us, eh?” 

“That’ll be a great help,” Dorian smiled. “Thank you. I can pass you a list of people to watch.” 

“Eh, think of it as trading in turn. I don’t like havin’ debts. And I’m certainly going to take you up on your Kal-Sharok offer.” Grunmar patted his dazzling cuirass. “Don’t want to be accused of hoarding your time. Enjoy the party, Archon. Magister.” 

“See you later again perhaps, my dear,” Maevaris said, and smiled as she allowed Grunmar another kiss, this time over the underside of her wrist. 

As Grunmar ambled off, to greet another guest, Dorian murmured, “Do you have dwarven ‘friends’ or dwarven ‘admirers’?”

“Why, Archon,” Maevaris slipped her palm into the crook of Dorian’s elbow again, “In Tevinter, ’tis often one and the same.”

“How _do_ you do it?”

Maevaris grinned. “Dwarves are quite resistant to magic. And they do not dream. For a few, therefore, to bed a mage, particularly a powerful mage, is a turn-on like no other.”

“I think I missed a logical step there.”

“Magic in bed, my dear,” Maevaris said dryly. “Don’t tell me you’ve never tried it.”

“Well I have, obviously, but if dwarves are resistant-“

“They’re resistant, not immune. To quite a number of them, it’s a rush. Or so my dear late husband once told me. I suppose word of it spread.” 

“… I’m actually not entirely sure whether I should be shocked or impressed right now.” 

“Dwarves have a lot of strength, my dear,” Maevaris smirked. “And a lot of stamina. Though, I suppose your latest paramour likely has both of that in spades.” 

Thankfully, years of living with his parents meant that embarrassment no longer made Dorian blush. “Ah… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Something like that will leak eventually,” Maevaris noted. “Best you think about how to control the fallout. A little spin, and you _might_ even find some gain out of all this. In fact,” Maevaris added thoughtfully, “If we ever wanted to undermine his popular appeal-” 

“Let’s not think that far,” Dorian interrupted quickly, as they wandered over to the trestle tables. 

“You’re in a position now where you have to be at least five steps ahead of everyone else, Archon.” Maevaris flicked a glance at him. “If not for yourself, then for the rest of us. And, as your wife likes to say, dear, there’s no room in politics for sentiment.”

II.

Arron Antias smiled when Dorian greeted him at the fete, but there was no friendliness in it. It looked, in fact, rather like a large cat’s lips curling up, into a slow snarl, and Dorian smiled all the more winningly in response, even as he carefully swallowed his temper.

Coming to Solas had been a little like braving the dragon’s den. House Antias had never historically had a very friendly relationship with House Pavus in the first place, something which Dorian’s father had tried to patch by brokering a marriage between Dorian and the oldest Antias daughter, Minerva, a match that Dorian had carefully sabotaged - with Minerva’s help. They had, after all, despised each other on sight, and the only thing they had managed to ever agree on was how to ensure that the both of them never had to share a marriage bed.

“Archon,” Magister Antias said, his tone flat. “How… pleasant of you to visit.” 

“It was my pleasure,” Dorian said, trying not to sound _too_ insincere and probably failing. Vivienne was better at ordeals like this than Dorian was. “I hope that everything is going well?”

“So far, yes.” Arron glanced from Dorian to Livia, then to Felix, and back to Dorian. “May I have a word, later this evening?” 

“I was about to propose the very same thing, Magister.” 

“Good. Good. Enjoy the ball, Archon.” 

Walking past the Magister to his guests felt a little like turning tail and retreating, but if so, Dorian still managed to do it with dignity. He wished that he had brought Maevaris, but that likely would have exacerbated things: one of the few things that Arron and Halward apparently shared was a mutual dislike of her. “Bigoted old men,” Maevaris had put it bluntly, and smiled sharply when Dorian had asked. “I’ll only damage your case, my dear.”

Considering the tense silence that rippled briefly through the guests when Dorian walked down the gravel path to the greater gardens, Dorian wasn’t entirely sure whether he still _did_ have a ‘case’ to ‘damage’. 

Solas was a beautiful, if medium-sized holding that had once been some sort of elven temple-city: much of the old ruins still remained, now carefully overgrown with chosen vines and plants, much of it levelled, but some of the structures still remained here and there, tended like art. House Antias’ gardens had once been a temple’s outer grounds, apparently, much of it since planted over: only its gorgeous stepped waterfalls remained, each tier with a different statue of an animal, all straining forward, as if to leap off into the air, and a raised courtyard of sorts. Old columns also remained, carved to look like vines curling up trunks, at each apex a wolf statue, all in different poses: one reclining, one sitting on its haunches, another coiled, as though about to spring.

The statues made Dorian feel a little uneasy, in a way he couldn’t quite place. The company, perhaps. Arron Antias had invited, technically, all of the Magisterium, including the Divine and the Grand Clerics, but as was fairly normal for a Tevinter party, most of the Magisters who had actually had ‘time’ to attend were traditional Antias allies. Dorian noted, a little uncomfortably, the most of the faces he recognised outright had been the ones whom had voted against him in the Senate, only a short while ago.

For once, his father’s presence was slightly comforting. Halward’s eyebrows had jumped slightly when his father had recognised him from the crowd, and he angled over to Dorian’s side with a smile that was only slightly forced. “Archon.” 

“Father,” Dorian said politely, instead of his usual, sharply ironic ‘Magister Pavus’ in public. 

Halward seemed to relax a fraction. “I don’t believe you’ve met Anthony Gallus?” 

“Not as yet, I think.” The heir to House Gallus had a wide streak of cruelty in him, and was, if Dorian recalled, rumoured to love whipping his slaves… with whips of his own fashioning. 

“I’ll introduce you. He is, after all, your age.” 

Normally, this was the point where Dorian would have tried to escape, as politely as possible, but the tension lingered, and in the corner of his eyes, he could see Livia’s hands curling, very slightly, a sign that his Guard Captain was on edge. “I’ll be pleased to meet him,” Dorian said, with forced sincerity, to Halward’s own practiced smile, and spent the next hour feeding on random fingerfood delicacies while being introduced to a host of people whom he quietly hoped would expire. Hopefully soon. 

Minerva wasn’t at the party, at least. Thank the Maker for small mercies. 

When the music started up, Dorian was actually relieved. Usually, the dance would be the least interesting part of a party, if only because assassinating someone during a dance was considered to be in terrible taste, but today, it felt like he was getting a breather. 

Dorian wasn’t entirely surprised when young Caelestis Antias, technically the star of the debutante ball, invited him to the floor for a dance. This part of the old gardens had been left intact: a strange, marble flooring, squares of it set with interlaced metal webbing in an alien pattern that lit up with gentle chimes when stepped on. Dorian tried not to make it look too obvious that he was trying to study the ground, as he set a hand on Caelestis’ hip and wreathed the fingers of his right hand with her left. 

Caelestis was not as beautiful as Minerva, her skin paler, her eyes set a little too closely together, her hair wispy and black and straight rather than having Minerva’s lustrous golden waves. But just like her sisters, just like her father, her eyes were like hard little stones. 

Delightful.

“Thank you for coming to the ball, Archon,” Caelestis murmured, as they danced, perfectly in step, one dance of hundreds before it, for both of them.

“My pleasure. Beautiful gardens. And such a curious flooring system.”

“It’s enchanted. Old elven magic,” Caelestis shrugged. “When I was a child, my sisters and I often tried to play at pretending that we knew what it was. That perhaps if stepped on in the right order, some sort of secret would open up in the grounds, somewhere.”

“And…?”

“And it was all pretense. Nothing ever happened.” Caelestis smiled thinly. “Archon, how many siblings do I have?”

“Ah…” Dorian blinked. “Well, you have three sisters.” 

“Yes, and I, the youngest of them all. Minerva’s to succeed Father. Fortuna to become First Enchanter of Solas. And Luna and I? We are tools. Spares.” 

“I wouldn’t put it that way, my lady.” 

“I’m young, not blind,” Caelestis said tartly. “I know why you’re here. Father voted against you in the Senate, and you’re worried.”

Dorian smiled faintly. Arron Antias had not yet schooled his youngest daughter in the way of political chatter, to feint and feint and never get right to the point. It was, in a way, rather refreshing. “I’m always worried.”

“I’ve been listening to him talk over the last few days. He thinks you’re here to make him an offer. To marry me off to whichever Erimond heir you’re about to appoint to the Lordship of Carastes. He’s going to make you a counter offer. Marry me off, and let him appoint Erasthenes’ successor.”

Dorian kept his face carefully schooled by sheer effort. Damn his Senate and their greed, by the Maker! “Oh, he is, is he?”

“He'd probably have wanted to choose Fabiana's successor as well, if she hadn't already had a son lined up in the works. Well,” Caelestis said fiercely, “I don’t want to be married, especially not to a total stranger. And Minerva said that you’re often unpleasant, but you’re still quite reasonable when you have to be.”

“You, my dear,” Dorian said dryly, “Are a breath of fresh air in Tevinter politics.” 

“You’re here to buy my father’s favour,” Caelestis retorted. “I would wager I can say whatever I please to you right now and you’d swallow it. So. I’ll tell you now. I know my father. Buy what you like from him - he’ll have no loyalty to you even so, for all his promises. You are, after all, of House Pavus, and Father loves living in the past.”

“The past?”

“Our semi-hostile family history aside, he felt slighted when your father cancelled the match between you and Minerva.”

“That was… partly Minerva’s doing!”

“Father knows. He doesn’t care. In his opinion, your father should have held firm. Married up the two of you, rather than allowing you to marry someone of non-Tevinter blood. To Father, your choice, _and_ your father’s, were an insult that he hasn’t forgiven.”

Dorian let out a deep sigh. “So… I should just… discuss the weather with him later, and forget about proposing a peace offering?”

“I think you should make _me_ an offer,” Caelestis said, with a sharp smile. “Minerva loathes you, Fortuna is a complete copy of her, and Luna has absolutely no ambition.”

“Well yes, I noticed all of that,” Dorian said wryly. “What sort of offer would you like me to make you then, my lady?”

“Name me to Erasthenes’ seat.” 

Dorian blinked. “Your family’s Magisterium seat-“

“Will never be mine. Getting rid of everyone above me will take far too much effort, and will set a barrel of snakes open within my own house. Better that I make my own way. I’ll be an Antias only in name. And more importantly, that’s one more Magister from a powerful Altus family, in your pocket.” 

“You make bold promises.” 

Caelestis executed a twirl, along with all the other secondary partners, more out of habit than pleasure, her eyes still hard as Dorian set his hand back on her hip. “Think on it. What have you got to lose?”

“Plenty. To give House Antias _two_ Magister seats in the Magisterium - that’ll cause an uproar.”

“I have funds of my own. I can renounce my name. Leave Solas and come to Minrathous.” Caelestis noted unhesitatingly. “As an offer of faith.” 

Dorian frowned at her. Under the bravado, under Caelestis’ temper, he could see a hint of… desperation, perhaps. Hunger. It was something he recognised. Once, years ago, he too had been desperate to leave Qarinus. As to the price Dorian had paid for the chance… well. The role of Archon wasn’t always an ordeal, so far.

“My lady,” Dorian said, more gently, “I will think about it.” 

Caelestis’ lip curled. “You’ll negotiate with Father?”

“I’ll like to hear his offer. Just to see if your guess is right.”

“I don’t guess,” Caelestis said shortly. “Go on then. Listen to what he has to say. But don’t make him any promises either. Once you make up your mind, if you prefer my proposal, send word from Minrathous to this address, not to this House.” Caelestis slipped him a small, folded piece of paper. “And I will show you what I’m willing to do to leave this fucking place.”


	11. Chapter 11

I.

_Dorian,_

_I pray that this note reaches you quickly. Livius is dead, he had been helping Corypheus manipulate the Grey Wardens into performing mass blood magic rites in order to create an army of demons; the Inquisition had to attack Adamant Fortress. Unfortunately, it was a costly battle: Cassandra is a charismatic leader, but she has little of the subtlety required for strategy… a frontal assault, even on an old fortress, was perhaps ill advised._

_More concerningly, Leliana tells me that her scouts have found that the Venatori are disappearing from the sites they have been investigating. We believe that they are returning to Tevinter. You have been too successful at your endeavours, darling: or perhaps they return for some other purpose. Be safe. You have kicked the hornet’s nest, and they are flying home._

_Vivienne._

Dorian waited impatiently outside Cullen’s office until Grand Cleric Octavia finished nattering on about tomorrow’s midday sermon, or whatever it was, and she greeted Dorian with an amiable smile on her way out. Dorian forced a sketched little bow in return, if only out of habit and to make the old bird chuckle, then he excused himself as politely as possible and stepped into the office, shoving the door shut behind him.

“Maker, I thought she would never be done,” Dorian groused, as Cullen strode over to him from the desk. “I’ve got a note from Vivienne- _mmph_!”

Cullen had pinned Dorian deftly to the wall, not so much kissing him but devouring him, even if he was still rather more enthusiastic than skilled, and Dorian was dimly, yet again, grateful for the prescience of Cullen’s predecessor, who had gone to great pains to ensure that the stone of his office was enchanted against eavesdropping. Gloved hands bracketed Dorian’s shoulders on the smooth stone, and Cullen groaned as Dorian twisted his own fingers up into curly, golden hair and _tugged_ , but still they kissed, as though time didn’t matter.

“Sorry,” Cullen gasped, when they were fighting for breath. “Sorry, it’s been a trying day. I missed you.”

Dorian playfully skated the fingers of his left hand over Cullen’s flushed cheek. Maker, but if this was a trap, it was a perfect one, with bait so handsome; with Cullen like this, it was so easy to forget that Dorian was the Archon, and that Tevinter now only knew Cullen by another name.

“Like I was trying to tell you,” Dorian petted his palm back up to Cullen’s hair, and closed his eyes as Cullen brushed a kiss between his eyes,” I got a note from Vivienne. Livius is dead.”

“That’s good news, isn’t it? Seeing as you’re just about to appoint his successor.”

“He was trying to manipulate the Wardens after all, and he’s been stopped. More importantly,” Dorian said quietly, “The Venatori are coming back. In droves. And they’re probably angry.”

A laugh shook into Cullen, and it was not one of Cullen’s laughs: that sharp humour was back, for all that they still were so closely entwined. “Oh yes. Let me tell you about _my_ day, then. Three Chantries in three separate little border Imperium towns have been ‘mysteriously’ sacked.”

“Sacked?”

“Destroyed by fire, yes, very abruptly. Witnesses described it as the entire building, going up as though caught by a ‘giant fireball’. In one instance, the priests were still inside. As were a couple of the townsfolk.” 

Dorian frowned. “Why haven’t I heard-“

“You probably will soon.” Cullen said, a little too carefully. “No doubt Felix will brief you about it in time.” 

Despite Cullen’s early opinion of Dorian, Dorian _had_ been Archon long enough to be able to tell when someone was evading the point - and make an intelligent guess as to the reason. He just had to pick the worst possible one. It was usually right. “You _didn’t_ want me to hear about it?”

Cullen shrugged heavily. “Chantry matters. Chantry business.” 

“That’s… that’s ridiculous! It’s an act of violence in _my_ country.” 

“ _And_ ,” Cullen said firmly, “Your position’s going to get rather more precarious right now. You have problems of your own, Archon.” The Divine stared at Dorian, his gaze calm and even. “The Chantry knows this fight. We’ll be better prepared in the future, don’t worry. We’ve posted a watch on the other Chantries, as well as an eye out on all known Venatori and their associates. We’re even in a fair position to retaliate-”

“You can’t just… just _start_ private wars!” 

“I can,” Cullen disagreed, his voice steely now. “And I have. Especially if I have to protect my own.” 

“What sort of Tevinter do you want from that? You can’t just have blood and war on the streets! It’ll be chaos!”

“I want a Tevinter where mages don’t have the right to do as they please,” Cullen retorted. “One with no slavery. One where wealth and power is not held by the very few.” 

Dorian sucked in an irritable breath, trying not to get distracted. Maker, but Cullen like this, so fiercely convinced that he was in the right, was just as damnably handsome. “There are rules-“

“Rules written by the few, for the few.” Cullen, however, pressed a ticklish kiss to Dorian’s jaw, as though also, in turn, distracted by Dorian from any further argument. “Sweet Maker. Why did you have to be so beautiful? We shouldn’t be doing this. Even _arguing_ with you is hard.” 

“You,” Dorian growled, now profoundly annoyed, temper simmering close to the surface, with desire and exasperation alike, all in a welter of tangled lust, “Are _utterly_ infuriating.” 

“Yes, I know,” Cullen whispered, and muffled a laugh when Dorian kissed him to get the smirk off his face. They stumbled backwards, almost crashing into Cullen’s desk, and ended up sliding down against the side of it, Cullen’s back against one sturdy leg, Dorian straddling his lap, hands pressing prints of frost up Cullen’s black armour.

Cullen gasped, pulling Dorian down for a kiss with a touch too much strength: Dorian nearly cut his lip on teeth before he righted himself and growled and rubbed himself teasingly against the hard length he could feel under his arse. Another growl, and gloved hands were kneading Dorian’s rump, urging him on, and Dorian bit out a chuckle. “Do that and we’re both going to make a mess. In our clothes.”

“Isn’t that what magic is for?” Cullen retorted, and his breathing hitched as Dorian walked his fingers up to Cullen’s neck, drawing dots of frost as they went. 

“Not that I know of. Though I’m sure the mages in Vol Dorma would _love_ to think up a cleaning spell, if you-“ Dorian’s words were muffled against another kiss, then yet another, and then, somehow, he was on his back on the wood-panelled floor, legs nudged apart, Cullen’s armour creaking against leather straps as he fumbled down the hems of both their breeches. When he tugged off a glove with his teeth, Dorian may have let out a shaky, breathless groan. 

Spit wasn’t great for slick, but Dorian was already a little too far gone to care: it wasn’t just that Cullen was so gorgeous. The thrill of what they were doing, the sheer, inappropriate, insane level of _inadvisability_ to it all was intensely heady, and from the way Cullen’s hand shook and slipped as he grasped them both, Dorian knew he wasn’t the only one so affected. 

Their furtive trysts never quite last very long: threat of discovery, and all that - but this time Dorian felt a tiny little spark of pride that he managed to hold off for longer than Cullen. Lips grazed over his ear, Cullen’s breath hot and unsteady against his cheek as they tried to calm their breathing, the air now unbroken by their bitten-off moans.

“Made a mess anyway,” Cullen murmured then, a hint of amusement in his voice, smug as anything, the bastard, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

They managed to clean up the best they could: thank the Maker Dorian hadn’t decided to wear silks today - and it was, fine, a trifle adorable how handsy Cullen was whenever sated, making every excuse to touch Dorian as though he needed it to breathe. They ended up sprawled precariously in Cullen’s heavy chair, beside his desk, Cullen slumped low over the cushioned back, Dorian half-perched on Cullen’s lap and against an armrest, each touch and caress like a small flutter of mutual madness. 

When the staccato knock on the door inevitably came, Dorian started to pull back, only for Cullen to tug him over for a last, lingering kiss. “Why did I come here again?” Dorian murmured, grinning despite himself, despite the irritation he had felt earlier. Cullen, like this, was just like a drug.

“Mm. Something about delivering me a warning for a situation that I was already aware of.”

“Cheeky bastard.”

II.

“I can’t begin to even tell you how bad an idea it is,” Felix told Dorian, once they were riding out of the Argent Spire’s stables.

“Which idea? Do elaborate.”

“Your increasingly regular ‘meetings’ with the Divine,” Felix said dryly. “Though, I have to admit, perhaps this entire business about aggravating the Venatori was probably ill-advised after all, what with them starting to explode Chantry buildings.”

“I’ll have you know that you can learn a lot from a man through regular interaction-“

“Is _that_ what you’re going to call it?” Felix marvelled, with a look of mock astonishment, and Dorian rolled his eyes.

“It’s my business and I’m being careful. Besides, I thought that maybe he might want to know about Vivienne’s letter. I ‘forgot’ how well-informed Divine Leonthius really is. Blast his soporati spy network.”

“That aside,” Felix said firmly, “We’ve just received a note from Deshyr Stonefist. Said that he’s tracked down a secret shipment of lyrium to the College of the Arts. I’ve already sent word ahead to Father to have him meet us at the Gates.”

“… How long ago was this secret shipment of lyrium made?” Dorian asked, resigned. 

“Stonefist can’t be sure. He only just happened to stumble over the information when he was at another deshyr’s residence to discuss an unrelated matter. Seems the Ambassadoria’s split into camps again.”

“If there’s one thing the dwarves love more than gold,” Dorian grumbled, “It’s politics.” He should have known. “Did you make enquiries about that lovely situation over in House Antias?”

Felix pulled a face. “You could say that. It’s a damned mess. As far as our spies can tell, Caelestis is honest about wanting to leave home. She’s been engaged in some sort of internecine familial warfare for years… her oldest two ‘heir’ sisters see the youngest two as threats, and treat them as such. The third sister is placid, but Caelestis has her father’s temper.”

“… But?”

“But,” Felix sighed, “ _Two_ Antias scions in the Magisterium. _Two_? Both of whom are, mind you, nearly exactly alike in personality. Caelestis needs you now, because she has no alternative. But in the future? She’d just as easily turn on you, I think. Imagine Arron, but in skirts and with tits.”

“I’d… rather not, thank you.” Dorian exhaled. The matter of House Antias had been a headache that he hadn’t yet exorcised, for all his stalling. As Caelestis had predicted, Arron had wanted a match for his youngest daughter _and_ a say in picking Erasthenes’ successor. “What do you think, Felix?”

“I think you’re stuck with no good decisions,” Felix said cheerfully. “Either you side with the girl - who has no connections outside of her House, mind you, and, quite likely, has no political experience at all - or you side with the father, who would still quite cheerfully stab you in the back if he could get some profit out of it. This is why I didn’t want to be Archon.”

“That’s… so helpful.”

“Or,” Felix added, “You could ignore them both, and name one of your many, many cousins to the position. _Three_ House Pavus scions. How about that.” 

“… Except for the small problem that I hate all of them…?”

“You’re so negative, Archon,” Felix said, though he grinned. “Well, fine. I suppose maybe you could just name some random soporati off the street. That’ll be fun. Oh! Oh! Or you could name _Vivienne_ to the post.”

“That’s… not a bad idea, actually. Reeks of cronyism, of course, but it’s not as though that’s an unfamiliar idea to an Archon.” Dorian tilted his head. Actually, it might even make his life easier. Vivienne still had no real position in the Imperium other than her status as his wife and his Right Hand: no traditional Altus blood, no Magister rank. 

“I was joking,” Felix said dryly, “The moment you make that woman a Magister, she’ll probably murder you for real and take your position.”

“That’s still not funny, Felix.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be funny,” Felix retorted, though he smirked. “Thing is, if you do that? You’d make an enemy out of the entirety of House Antias. The girl, _and_ the father.”

“There’s a solution to that. I think Caelestis might be desperate enough that she would leave, regardless of whether we offer her the Magister position or not: as long as we give her some support.” Dorian frowned, glancing up as they passed the Grand Proving Arena, past ranks of startled-looking soporati, stopping in their usual business to watch the Archon’s procession pass by. “Maybe if we name her to some position in the Dragon’s Roost. Important enough to have a generous stipend, but not quite a Magister’s rank.”

“We… make something up?” Felix suggested. 

“Why not? Maybe she could assist Maevaris. Her temper would be _great_ for handling the Venatori. That’s one thing our spies reported. Of all her sisters, Caelestis is the most talented - magically.”

“Who’s the least?” Dorian asked, curious. 

“You’re hoping it’s Minerva? Sorry. It’s Luna - the quiet one. Probably why she has no ambition. She has barely enough magic in her to light a candle on will.”

“But she’s an Antias girl,” Dorian said wryly, “Which is why she married into… what was it… House Amladaris?”

“Spends her days painting, I hear.”

“Good for her. At least _someone_ from that House is productive.” 

“Even if you could appease Caelestis,” Felix continued, “There’s still Arron.”

Dorian pulled a face. “I’m beginning to regret even trying to negotiate with him now. No matter. Hopefully, there’s no other big Senate matter up for a time, and Vivienne can come back and soothe everything down. She’s good at that.”

“Just need to survive until then?” Felix snorted. “You can’t always leave everything to your wife to sort out.”

“I don’t just rely on her. Livia here has already sabotaged three assassination attempts.” Dorian glanced back over his shoulder and grinned at Livia, who offered him a dour nod.

“Only three?” Felix asked facetiously.

“This week,” Livia corrected absently. “Four, if you count the idiot who fell out of a window yesterday evening.”

“‘Fell’, you say,” Dorian said dryly. 

“Fell,” Livia repeatedly shortly. “Won’t be trying that again. Think of it as a deterrent.”

“… Did he die?”

“No,” Livia said, after a moment’s thought. “But he probably wished that he did.”

Dorian pressed a palm over his face. “Livia!” 

“Relax. It was Maevaris’ idea,” Livia said loftily. “There’s no room for de-escalation in politics.”

“That’s definitely not something Maevaris would say,” Felix said, startled. “Also, I thought it was, ‘There’s no room for _sentiment_ in politics’.”

“That too,” Livia agreed. 

“I can’t believe the two of you,” Dorian began, then he frowned, leaning forward in the saddle and squinting into the distance. Beyond, from where the tall spires of the College of the Arts stood, a bubble of coruscating bronze swelled, translucent, _through_ which the spires seemed, at times, older, so old to be overgrown with vines, at times under construction, ribs of buttresses still missing, and at times, not there at all.

“What in the Maker’s name is _that_?” Felix yelped. 

“It’s spreading!” Livia warned, starting to wheel her horse around. “Turn! Turn! Back to the Roost, Archon!” 

Even as Dorian also started to turn his whinnying mare, the dome _rippled_ outwards, expanding faster than a horse could run, buildings and even _people_ flickering where it touched, and Dorian thought _time magic_ even as the dome swarmed out towards them, behind it apparently turning the paving stones of Minrathous to grass, a pale white halla even leaping across the open plain, then back to stone, older stone, then it was almost upon them, even as Dorian brought up his hands, weaving strands of time around himself, around Felix, reaching for Livia, but he was too late-

The spell swallowed them all- 

Dorian’s roan mare startled, with a whinny of fright that froze in the air, but it was far too well-bred to buck, as was Felix’s own horse, even as grass dappled down under the horses’ hooves, then back to stone, the sky above rippling from blue to gray to blue and to a wild shade of green, back and forth through time. He could see Felix’s mouth opening and closing, shaping a question that Dorian could not hear, the threads of time anchoring them to a present-past that created a disruptive bubble of its own against the vast scale of the time-spell that had swallowed Minrathous, further, further-

And then they were out, blinking dumbly. It was still the late afternoon, but they were alone, the only riders on an empty street. The usually busy line of upmarket townhouse shops that lined the boulevard opposite the Grand Proving Arena were all silent, their doors and windows boarded up. The Grand Proving Arena’s hanging gardens were ash, the hanging pots with their long-withered contents littering the ground or dangling listlessly in their cradles. 

“Dorian,” Felix said, his tone hushed, as he nudged his horse nervously closer. “Look up.”

Dorian did, with a sinking feeling, his hands tight on his mare’s reins. Above, arcane magic forked wild and untamed around unnaturally swirling clouds, beyond which an iridescent slurry of brilliant colours twisted and curled within itself, like an oily slick spread right across the sky. The great rift into the Fade was now large enough, it seemed, to swallow Thedas itself.

“… What. The _fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the one year magical leapfrog as per Dorian's canon story... Except probably worse. ^^;;


	12. Chapter 12

I.

“Come on,” Felix urged, as Dorian stared. “We’re a little exposed out here.”

Reluctantly, Dorian turned his skittish mare, and they headed through into the Grand Proving Arena. The once crowded public gardens around the Arena were long abandoned, and the roan mare snorted and stamped its feet as Dorian nudged it under rusty lattices that were once thick with sweet-scented vines. 

They were out of sight of the main thoroughfare, at least, once they headed deeper into the Arena Gardens. All that remained of the Astra Maze were the four pillars that stood at its corners, remnants of the Elven Empire, their pitted surfaces blackened freshly at parts, but otherwise intact. Dorian felt a wry smile pull at his mouth. Elven stone had seen its makers’ empire pass. Perhaps now it would see another.

“What in the Maker’s name is happening out there?” Felix whispered. “Was that a time spell that took us?”

“I think so. I built a time spell of my own around us, hoping to negate the effect, but I think it had an unexpected effect.”

“What sort of effect?”

“I don’t like to guess,” Dorian said slowly, “But I think we’re possibly in the future. Look at this.” He jerked a thumb at the nearest column. “That’s fresh damage.”

“Or we might be in the past,” Felix said, just for the sake of argument, though the huge breach in the Fade in the sky sort of cemented Dorian’s statement. “Past or present… what now?”

“Something happened, in the direction that we were heading to - maybe even within the College of the Arts,” Dorian said grimly. “If we can find out what happened… or at the least, figure out… Maker, Felix, I don’t _know_. I didn’t even think that a spell of this magnitude was _possible_.”

“Father. We can find Father,” Felix perked up. “He’s the Imperium’s expert on time magic. Maybe… maybe all this can be unravelled. Or something. Maybe we can be sent back to our own time.” 

“That’s… not a bad idea, actually,” Dorian admitted. “Where do you want to start? The College? Or the Alexius estates?”

“Let’s try the estates,” Felix decided, after some hesitation. “If… whatever it was… started at the College, and was tied to that huge purchase of lyrium… maybe it’s best that we don’t barge headlong into that place until we have a better grip on the situation.”

“Good point,” Dorian began, then froze as the ground between them shook, one heavy footstep, then another - and a _huge_ demon reared out from under the portico East Gate of the Arena. It was vaguely man-shaped, with a great, gaping maw studded with sharp, dagger-like teeth, its skin a nightmare flowering of purple overlapping armour plates. Great arching horns scraped and dug into the portico as it stooped to get out, and in one huge hand, its arm thick with jutting spikes, it held a long, lightning-charged whip.

“Pride demon,” Felix whispered, wide-eyed. “Ah fuck.”

“Run!” 

Felix didn’t need further urging, kicking his heels into the sides of his frightened horse. Dorian’s mare darted past, both of them heading towards the exit of the Arena, but the demon let out a gurgling, guttural laugh, its whip lashing forward with unerring precision, cutting down Felix’s horse with a single swipe.

Dorian whirled his mare around, horrified, but Felix was rolling clear, bringing up a barrier with a gesture that the whip glanced off against, crackling and slapping into the skeletal lattice that had once held the vines of the Maze. Dorian swept up his hands, engulfing the Pride demon in a column of fire, but although its spikes and plated skin took spark, it didn’t seem bothered in the least, roaring as it swung its whip again, this time at Dorian. 

Thankfully, the roan mare was nimble and fast, springing clear, even as Dorian desperately brought up a static cage, leashing the Pride Demon briefly in place. A sweep of ice charged through the ground, courtesy of Felix, shattering against the Pride Demon’s armour, then Felix grunted as with a gesture, he uprooted the now-dusty, dry stone bird fountain, smashing it against the demon.

The Pride Demon howled, staggering back a step, up under the portico, and Dorian clenched his fists, sundering stone, breaking down the arch over the demon’s head, even as Felix flung ice at it again, this time in dagger-sharp shards. The damage was too great for the thing - its form flickered, growing molten, then, abruptly, it seemed to _flow_ upwards, in an oily, greenish streak, spearing upwards towards the breach.

“That’s… never happened before,” Felix said, blinking, breathing heavily. “Maker.”

“Sorry about your horse.”

Felix nodded grimly, stepping over his horse’s still carcass. “I guess we could share until we find another one…” His words trailed off, as around them, hooded figures stepped out from hiding places, behind archways, behind abandoned old fountains and statues. Whoever the newcomers were, they’d clearly taken care of the distraction provided by the demon.

Warily, Dorian nudged his horse over to Felix, ready to pull Felix up and try to make a break for it, if necessary. Some of the figures were clearly mages, with hands tight on staves, but others were in armour, with drawn blades and spears. Some sort of militia? Venatori? 

Then one of the figures pushed through the closing ring. “Felix?” There was a pause, then, more incredulously, “ _Dorian_?”

“… Father?” Dorian asked, cautiously, and Halward Pavus pushed the hood back, revealing a haggard face, thinned and sallow; his father’s rich hair was matted, with far more silver now than black. “Sweet Andraste. How far ahead into the future are we?”

“The future…” Halward began, then stopped, and let out a harsh laugh. “So that’s what happened. Maker. Thank the Maker. I thought… Dorian, I thought you were _dead_.” He made a gesture at the others, who reluctantly put away their weapons. “What did you do?”

“That aside,” Dorian said, warily, unwilling to divulge anything as yet, “You look like you’re in… rather reduced circumstances,” he added, for although Halward had never been quite fond of lavish robes, he did at the least enjoy well-made ones, and now… his father looked like a laetan fresh out of a peasant family, with an old tunic over patched breeches under his gray hooded cloak, the only point of familiarity about it all his dragon-headed staff. 

“Things changed. _Maker_ , did they change. Dorian… is it really you?” Halward sounded… lost. It was something that Dorian had never heard before, not from his usually self-assured father, and it was utterly disconcerting. 

“What happened?” Felix asked, a little tentatively, and this seemed to break the spell - Halward shook his head, and let out another, harsh laugh.

“The Venatori happened. Let’s head underground, before they come and check out what you’ve done to the demon they leashed to the Proving Arena. Lansard here will take care of your horse.” 

“And we should go with you… why?” Dorian asked warily. “The last _we_ had words on the Venatori, if you recall, you voted _against_ me in the Senate!”

“I had my reasons,” Halward said shortly, and exhaled, wringing his fingers. “Maker. It _is_ you. Oh, my _son_.”

Thoroughly unsettled, Dorian dismounted, if reluctantly, handling the reins of his mare over to one of Halward’s hooded minions, then he stiffened up as Halward strode over and hugged Dorian tightly, a strangled sound muffled against Dorian’s shoulder. Startled, Dorian looked plaintively over at Felix, who was wide-eyed, clearly as surprised as Dorian was. Thankfully, Halward pulled away after another heartbeat, his face composed.

“Come. Clearly we have much to discuss.”

II.

Perhaps a little predictably, the Resistance - as Halward called it - had its headquarters underground, in the great aqueducts that ran beneath Minrathous. “We’re… sort of running to stereotype here, aren’t we?” Dorian quipped, as they emerged onto a narrow tier, overlooking an onrushing canal of dark water, lit only by dim magelights against the damp walls. “I mean, it’s just that every single Tevinter tragedy has its villains hiding in the aqueducts.”

Halward let out a snort, though there was an irritable murmur through the hooded ranks behind Dorian. “Maker. I’ve even missed this about you.”

“… All right. You’re starting to scare me.”

“Magister Halward,” Felix said quickly, before Halward could reply, “Where’s… where’s my father? Is he safe?”

Halward glanced briefly over his shoulder, his expression still and flat. “Gereon joined the Venatori, Felix.”

“Joined the… _No_. Why would he?” Felix demanded. “The Venatori stand against _everything_ that Father stands for!”

“He thought you dead as well,” Halward said shortly. “Grief changes people.” 

“That doesn’t make _sense_. The spell that might have ‘gotten’ me would have come from the Venatori!” 

“All anyone knows is that the both of you were last seen alive in the Chantry,” Halward said, then he hesitated.

“And…?” Dorian prompted.

“And,” Halward added roughly, “The school of thought ran thus: Either you had been murdered by the Divine, or murdered in quiet by the Venatori. What spell?”

“The… giant time spell?” Dorian noted. “The one that swallowed Tevinter? Maybe the world?”

“If it did something to time,” Felix said, clearly still struggling with the revelation about his father, “Maybe everyone who _didn’t_ use haste magic to keep themselves out of it doesn’t even know that it happened. What _did_ happen? Around when Dorian and I disappeared?”

“The Venatori were everywhere,” Halward said shortly. “They had returned to Tevinter in all their numbers - along with… Southerner troops, templars, mutated with red lyrium. We thought that they’d been funnelling in secretly for months. I suppose,” Halward added thoughtfully, “If there _had_ been some sort of vast time disruption, that could explain it.”

“So my father thought that I had been killed by the Divine?” Felix blinked. “Didn’t Livia say anything?”

“Livia? Your Guard Captain? She’s dead. One of the first to fall to the red templar.”

Felix sighed. “All right. How is it that _your_ father does the right thing, and joins the Resistance, and _my_ father goes right off the reservation?”

“Well, now that we’re both here,” Dorian said doubtfully, “Maybe we can change his mind. Or something. Where’s Mother?”

Halward’s lips curled humourlessly. “Joined the Venatori. Though, I have a feeling it’s not truly because she sides with them, but mainly because I sided with the Resistance. I didn’t take it personally.”

“Well, there you go,” Dorian told Felix dryly. “My mother did it too.”

“What is _wrong_ with our parents? Sorry, Magister Halward.”

“Vivienne?” Dorian asked. “Is she safe?”

“She never returned from the south. I’m sorry, Dorian.” 

Dorian grimaced, clenching his fists tightly for a moment, squaring away the bubble of grief that he felt within him, smoothing it away. Felix clasped his wrist briefly, and then asked, “Maevaris?”

“Alive. She’s in Qarinus, organising her pocket of the Resistance from there. She’ll be overjoyed to hear that the both of you survived after all.”

They walked some distance through the aqueduct maze before Dorian dared to ask, “And what happened to C… ah, to Divine Leonthius?”

Thankfully, Halward made no comment about the slip - or about anything at all: he merely turned a sharp corner, and stopped, the tunnel he was facing long bricked over. He raised his palms, pulling arcane energy to himself, stacking the bricks away and to a side, allowing everyone to pass, then walking through himself, and restacking the bricks over the tunnel.

It was a short tunnel, which led into what had likely once been a maintenance office, a large service complex where the soporati whom had been tasked with keeping the entirety of the aqueduct running had lived and slept. Now, it was a warren of activity: men and women stopped to stare as Halward led them briskly past the great silos of water tanks, whose enchantments purified the flow of water that came through them from the city above. 

Draperies, wooden planking and stretched fabric sectioned off the wide walkways now into little rooms, where the Resistance clearly lived: the smell of cooking fires was greasy in the air, as was the rank scent of far too many people living at far too close a proximity. Dorian tried not to breathe too deeply as he followed his father, and tried not to look too closely at all the drawn, pale faces that studied him and Felix both.

They ascended a narrow stone stair up to what had probably been the foreman’s office, now clearly a war room of sorts, with a table on the centre and a large map of Tevinter, little tokens of varying shapes littering the scroll. Around it were familiar and unfamiliar faces: among those he recognised were three Grand Clerics, including Octavia… Ciceron, Varen… and, of all people, Arron Antias. Arron blinked at them, growing open-mouthed, and beside him, heavily armoured, his back to the stair, Cullen turned, to see what the fuss was about… and went so pale that Dorian thought he would faint.

“Before there’s an outburst,” Dorian said quickly, “Yes, Felix and I are alive, no, we weren’t killed by the Venatori, yes, time magic was involved, and yes, it was an accident. Any further questions?”

Arron sniffed. “It’s your son all right, Halward. I’ve never met anyone this aggravating.” 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence, Magister Antias,” Dorian said dryly, “And may I say, I’m so glad that you survived the apocalypse.”

Arron rolled his eyes, even as Octavia smiled faintly and Ciceron sniffed. Varen stepped over, hand outstretched, but even as Dorian obligingly extended his own palm, Cullen grabbed his wrist, and dragged him to a side. 

“My apologies,” Cullen said curtly, to the others. “I’ll like to have a private word with the Archon.” 

“Is he still the Archon?” Dorian heard Arron complain, even Cullen dragged him into a side room, tiny and cramped. There was ventilation, somewhere, but the room was occupied by a cot and an armour rack and little else, far too tiny for the two of them, even if Cullen wasn’t in full armour. 

“Why is it,” Dorian said dryly, though he lowered his voice, “That the world goes to shit and those _two old men_ are _still alive_?”

“Maker,” Cullen said shakily, and let out a brittle, almost hysterical laugh. “Oh Maker. It’s you.”

“Shh, shh.” Dorian drew Cullen towards him, unyielding and uncomfortable as the armour was, cupping his cheeks with his palms, resting their foreheads together. Cullen was breathing with dry, harsh sobs, gasping for breath, as though Dorian’s very appearance had knocked his world off centre, and Dorian held him until he felt Cullen shudder, and his breath evened off. 

“The Venatori accused me of murdering you,” Cullen whispered. “It’s how they tried to rally the other mages.”

“Sounds logical.”

“I…” Cullen sucked in a harsh breath. “Maker’s breath. I was so _angry_ … I made mistakes in the early days. So many mistakes.” 

“They probably did that on purpose as well,” Dorian said gently. “You’re still here. And now I’m here, as well. Shh. Shh.”

Lips fumbled against Dorian’s cheek, then pressed hard against his mouth, and for the second time that day - at least by Dorian’s reckoning - he found himself pinned to a wall, kissed to the edge of madness. Cullen’s hair was shorter now, and felt as though it had been hacked short with a knife, his kiss sharper, harder, less of worship. The year between them had honed Cullen into a weapon: sentiment seemed alien to him now, even as Dorian tried to gentle the kiss - the grip on Dorian’s hips would bruise him.

“Cullen.” Dorian whispered, a little reproachfully.

“Sorry,” Cullen whispered, letting go of him, and nipped at his throat, a little too hard: stilling when Dorian bit out a yelp. “Fuck. I _mourned_ you. I thought that it was my _fault_.”

“Your fault?”

“I _knew_ about that damned lyrium shipment that you went out to investigate,” Cullen said bitterly. “The groundskeeper of the College of the Arts told the Chantry about it. He saw them moving it in, overnight. I _knew_. I could have said something-“ 

“You couldn’t have changed anything.”

“Couldn’t I? I could have told you about it hours earlier. Sent you a note, perhaps. We might have gone together. But no. I allowed myself to get distracted by the Chantries that were burned. And more than that…” Cullen sucked in a shaky breath, “I _wanted_ you to come to me. And after that, when you left... I thought nothing more of it. I… you see. I could have changed it all. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe it’s not too late. A time spell was used. Depending on how it was wrought, it can be undone. Perhaps things can be jumped back to the way they were.”

"A _time_ spell? By the Venatori? Is that what you meant earlier when you said that time magic was involved?" Cullen had a quick mind: he blinked. "So _that's_ how the Venatori got in all their troops! I thought they'd just somehow found a way to avoid all my spies!"

Dorian allowed a fumbled kiss, then he asked, “What happened to the Inquisition? And Corypheus?”

“The Inquisition has been shattered. The South is under Corypheus’ control: he invaded Orlais with his armies, destroyed Val Royeaux, murdered Empress Celene. As far as anyone knows, the Inquisitor herself is dead, along with her companions… and… and your…” 

“Vivienne, yes.” It hurt even to think about it. Dorian had not loved his wife, not the way a man would love a woman, but she had become one of his closest friends. Maker, he missed her. “That was after he used time magic to cheat and annex Tevinter, I presume.”

“Aye.”

“And the huge Breach in the sky? What is _that_ about?”

“We don’t know yet,” Cullen said quietly. “But it’s nothing good.” He tugged Dorian over, curling gloved hands tightly around the small of his back. “I’ve missed you.”

“This is the second time I’ve been hugged in an hour,” Dorian tried to quip, even as he blinked rapidly. “My father managed to scare me for the first time in _years_.”

Cullen didn’t answer, his hands petting up and down Dorian’s spine, restless, and in the end, it was Dorian who had to say, gently. “Come on. We’d better head out before those old codgers set each other and the map on fire, arguing.”

“Aye. I know.” Cullen kissed at the edge of Dorian’s mouth. “It’s good to have you back. Even if it’s at the end of the world.” 

“We don’t know that yet,” Dorian said, with a grin that he didn’t quite feel.


	13. Chapter 13

I.

Strangely enough, Vol Dorma was the only Imperial Holding remaining that had held out against the Venatori. Apparently Zaldereon Antonidas, Lord of Vol Dorma, had quietly fortified his city early _and_ allied with the Chantry, and the moment Dorian had disappeared, he had used Chantry spies to weed out all the Venatori agents within the city, disposed of them summarily, and closed off the ancient, Elven-made walls.

“Oh, we knew it was coming,” Zaldereon told Dorian, as they stood on the Great Lawn, watching the twisting, knotting Fade Rift upon it, still watched over by a roster of mages. “I’ve got friends out South too, Archon. The Dragonologist community’s very well connected.”

“Dragon…ologist?” Dorian blinked, and nearly flinched when ropes of arcane energy darted out of the Rift, only for the spooling spots to be dispelled by the watching mages. 

“You know,” Zaldereon said earnestly. The Lord of Vol Dorma was a stockily built old man who looked more like a blacksmith than a mage, with huge hands and big shoulders, a bald, high dome of a head that presided over a silver moustache and beard so florid that a dwarf would’ve been proud to own it. He wore the maroon robes of the College, with no embellishments save for the gold chain of office tucked under his beard. “People who study dragons.”

“Oh. Right.” 

“Just a hobby for me right now, of course,” Zaldereon said wistfully, “But when I was younger, I did venture out around Nevarra, doing field studies. What a time I had! Shame about the beasts getting slain here and there. The Pentaghast family’s so incredibly prolific of late.”

“There’s indeed something fascinating about a creature that can make faeces the height of a cottage,” Dorian said dryly, and Zaldereon beamed, clearly immune to sarcasm.

“That’s right! Are you a fellow enthusiast? I could introduce you to our little circle! Or… what’s left of it.” Zaldereon sighed. “One of my very great friends was with the Inquisition. Nasty business. They used magic and demons to crack open Skyhold. Hard doing, especially when the Inquisition destroyed the bridge, but demons always find a way, nasty creatures.”

Dorian nodded slowly, depressed all over again, even as beside him, Cullen darted a watchful eye from the rift, up to the Breach, then back to Zaldereon. “You said that you had some findings of import to show us,” he said shortly. 

Zaldereon’s eyebrows rose a fraction. “Indeed I do, Divine,” Zaldereon said amiably. “Cassius here will see you to the Observatory. The Archon and I will catch up. After all, I haven’t seen him in over a year.” 

Cullen frowned, but Dorian said evenly, “See you in a while, Divine,” and he nodded shortly, following a Senior Enchanter around the cordon of mages, trailed by his templar escort.

“Pity about the Divine,” Zaldereon said blandly, once Cullen was out of sight. “Went from being an arrogant but optimistic young man to a cold and bitter one, just over the last year. Very talented strategist, of course: we wouldn’t have held out without his advice and his forces.”

“You thought he killed us, did you?” Felix asked dryly. Over the past few days, Felix and Dorian’s reappearance had instigated different variations of surprise. It seemed that the Resistance hadn’t all been convinced, collectively, that the Chantry had nothing to do with their fates.

“Well yes,” Zaldereon smiled wryly. “As did Ciceron and a few of the rest of us - even Halward, at first. But the evidence pointed against it, if not conclusively, and besides, the Venatori were a bigger problem, overall.”

“I don’t think Ciceron would’ve been heartbroken if we _had_ been killed by the Chantry - or by anyone,” Dorian muttered. “Father seems fine now. Divine Leonthius left him in charge of Minrathous.”

“Oh yes,” Zaldereon said heavily. “Magister Pavus has proven himself adept at navigating the tatters of our society and pulling support to his side. Corypheus has promised a new age for Tevinter, one where the Imperium spans Thedas, yet again, with its mages all fief lords. But we are, thankfully, not all of us swayed by the promise of power. It’s clear enough to us in the Resistance that Corypheus has devastated the South, devastated Tevinter - he does not care for the Imperium, or for Thedas. He wants only to become a God, and he’ll destroy reality itself to do it.”

“So that hasn’t happened yet,” Dorian said, with relief. “Ascension.”

“If it had,” Zaldereon noted grimly, “We’ll all be aware of it, I am sure. That damnable dragon of his usually roosts in Minrathous - at your old office, actually - but it’s flown off somewhere else this week. A good sign, we think. Corypheus is away.” 

“What happened to the Breach?” Felix pointed upwards. 

“We’ve been studying it here in the College day and night.” Zaldereon began to walk towards the Observatory, with Felix and Dorian on either side. “Chantry spies have reported that Corypheus has some sort of… elven artefact, an orb. Erasthenes had a sketch of it, as you are aware: we’ve been studying his notes. We believe that this orb enabled Corypheus to open the breach in the first place: it is a gateway device, a foci for ancient elven magic. Each is usually keyed to a certain elven God: from the markings on the one Corypheus has, we believe his to be keyed to Fen’Harel.” 

“Somnoborium?” Dorian guessed. 

“Yes, exactly! Very good,” Zaldereon smiled, for a moment a professor again, and not the Lord of Vol Dorma. “I was rather disappointed when you chose to further your studies at the College of the Arts rather than with us here in Vol Dorma, Archon. Elias spoke very highly of you.”

“What happened to Elias?” Dorian asked, and Zaldereon sobered.

“He defected to the Venatori when Vyrantium was conquered. It was, I would like to believe, an act of desperation rather than calculation. There was no way he could have moved all the children out of his Circle in time, when the demons came.”

Dorian clenched his hands tightly, then he sighed. “Back to Corypheus. I suppose the College of Arts has found a way to… amplify the somnoborium further? One of the Chairs was researching amplification devices.”

“Yes indeed. Magister Laetia, actually. She’s been part of the Venatori for quite a while - even before the Cataclysm… which is to say, the event that caused the Breach to open above us to such an extent. We believe that she made a breakthrough in amplification magic just before the Cataclysm. If you’re right about the time spell, that was probably what she tested her methods on.” 

“What could it be? The amplification?”

Zaldereon grimaced. “Judging from the Chantry reports, we believe that it has something to do with red lyrium. Normal lyrium, in certain doses, can be an amplification within itself. Red lyrium - corrupted lyrium, of the sort that appeared in Kirkwall some years back - seems to have a far more intense effect. It’s the general belief here in Vol Dorma that red lyrium, and perhaps blood magic, allowed Laetia to break the _forma_ barrier, as it were, the specific wave-form that the Fade draw builds around each spell.” 

“Allowing the work of a single mage, or those of a few, to encompass the world,” Dorian finished. 

“If the orb caused the breach to be opened,” Felix said doubtfully, “Perhaps it can also close the breach.” 

“According to what my friend from the South told me, the act of even touching the orb gave the Inquisitor her abilities to close Rifts. Even if the orb cannot close the breach by itself, perhaps it could give members of the Resistance the ability to do so.” Zaldereon nodded. “Retrieving that orb should be our top priority. Something that I would like you to impress on our young Divine, Archon.”

They were almost at the foot of the entrance to the Observatory tower, and before they reached the door, Dorian asked, “Why? What does the Divine want to do?”

“He’d prefer to focus on getting rid of the Venatori and, if he can, killing Corypheus,” Zaldereon said heavily. “I understand that he is a military man, and I am not. But it seems to me that the Venatori’s ranks have swelled of late mostly out of fear - you won that vote in the Senate against them only a year before, did you not? If we murder the Venatori - even if we have the strength to do so - we also murder with it most of the governing structure of Tevinter. It’ll also be a costly war, and one which we will ultimately lose.”

“We ‘will’?” Felix repeated.

“The breach in the sky,” Zaldereon explained. “It’s growing bigger by the day. Once it’s at a point that reality itself bleeds into the Fade, and tears apart? I fear that this war between us and the Venatori will be proved ultimately petty.”

II.

The College in Vol Dorma had been pleased to house everyone for the night, though the rooms weren’t what Dorian was used to. His chambers in the Dragon’s Roost had been lavish; his rooms in the Pavus estates that he had grown up in were even more so - and the last he had come to Vol Dorma, the chamber he had ‘shared’ with Vivienne had also been beautifully furnished.

He had the same chambers now, though they were sectioned off, a consequence of the College having to house far more than its usual complement of mages. Most of the Resistance mages had retreated to Vol Dorma: housing everywhere, even within the College itself, was at a premium. All of Vivienne’s carefully chosen creature comforts had been stripped away: the room was bare but for a cot, a desk and a chair, propped against a window.

Dorian turned sharply when the door opened behind him, and relaxed when Cullen let himself in and shut the door. Cullen was dressed in a long, military coat, black, with the chantry crest in gold over the chest, his cuffs lined with gold brocade but nothing else, the wide collar caught over his heart with silver clasps. Compared to the other refugees, all of whom wore plain, homespun fare, whether they were soporati or mages, Cullen cut a sharply handsome sight.

“I thought you never took your armour off,” Dorian quipped, to distract himself, and Cullen snorted, even as he unbuckled his scabbard and set his sword against the wall.

“Zaldereon told me to stop intimidating everyone by ‘clunking around’, I believe his words were. Octavia had this made more than a year ago, but I’ve hardly had cause to wear it.”

“I like it,” Dorian admitted, even as Cullen drew close, big palms slipping back over Dorian’s hips. They kissed, Cullen tentative, Dorian hungry, for if there was one good thing about the end of the world, hiding something like this was no longer absolutely necessary. Intimacy was something that Dorian had not been used to, and over the past few days he’d had his share, whenever they could steal some time together, and it was like a drug, this - Cullen’s mouth on his, his pulse under Dorian’s hands, so solid and warm and alive. 

Still, it wasn’t as though they’d had much time on the road to do anything like _this_.

“Maybe coming here wasn’t entirely a waste of time after all,” Cullen murmured, with a quick, sharp grin, as Dorian started to unclasp his coat. 

“I don’t think that any of it was a waste of time,” Dorian retorted, even as he set his teeth in the line of Cullen’s throat that the collar bared, felt rather than heard the strangled moan that stuttered in Cullen’s throat. 

“Zaldereon’s been - ngh - nagging me about that orb for _months_. It’s nothing new.”

“Nothing new about conclusive findings that the orb is in the Arcanist Hall in Minrathous?”

“It was likely there all along.” Cullen was tugging off Dorian’s robes, in turn, shucking them off and onto the ground, ignoring Dorian’s little glare. “The Arcanist Hall was claimed by Corypheus as his headquarters. Calpernia resides there.”

Ah yes. Calpernia. Dorian pulled a face. He’d read that situation utterly wrongly, after all: he and Felix both. No one quite knew what had happened to Erasthenes, but Calpernia had returned to Tevinter at the head of the Venatori forces, and had stormed Minrathous.

“Seems to me like that suits everyone, then,” Dorian noted, even as he pushed Cullen onto the cot and climbed into his lap after him, grinning as Cullen fumbled a buckle on Dorian’s vest and cursed. “Gloves, Cullen.” 

Cullen hesitated, for a long moment, and Dorian opened his mouth, hesitated, and frowned, rearing back, his palms pressed flat on Cullen’s shoulders. Gloved hands flattened on Dorian’s thighs, almost nervously, then Cullen exhaled. “It was… a couple of days ago, before you… reappeared. Red lyrium dust in a… in a prayer book, of all things.”

“You breathed it in?” 

“No. I touched it by accident. I had been eating. Hadn’t put my gauntlets back on.” Cullen let out a harsh laugh. “I should have told you. I’m sorry. I just… well.”

“I thought it had to be ingested,” Dorian said slowly. He had read the Chantry and Vol Dorma reports on the so-called Red Templars, and the notes that the Resistance had made during their encounters. 

“Not anymore,” Cullen said quietly. “There’s a new sort of red lyrium, a more potent one: I was immune to the ones before. Octavia thinks perhaps that they’ll make the red dust in large quantities, blow it all over the Imperium.” 

“Let me see,” Dorian said softly, and after another long moment, Cullen bowed his head, leaning back further, and pulled the gauntlet off his right hand.

It was better than Dorian expected, and worse. Cullen’s fingertips were spiked with red crystals, that had pushed through the skin, plating over his nails, but other than that, the creep of red crystal hadn’t spread past the first joints. Cullen pulled his gauntlet back on, and set that hand on the bed. “It’s just that hand.” He exhaled bitterly. “My _sword_ hand.”

“Maybe it can be reversed. Or-“

“Vol Dorma’s trying it. But until then,” Cullen shrugged. “With what time I have left, I just want to fight. It’s not contagious with the gauntlet on.” 

“How… long do you have?” Dorian asked, uncomfortably.

“I don’t know. My Seeker training seems to have slowed it down some. And I don’t feel influenced by it… whatever it is. And it doesn’t hurt, nor does it stop me from using a blade. So for now, it’s bearable.”

“‘For _now_ ’?”

“I want to consolidate our forces,” Cullen said grimly. “Wait until Corypheus returns to the Arcanist Hall, then attack it. You’re here now: the Resistance will rally behind us both. If we can-“

“Or,” Dorian interrupted, “We can take a small force in, and get our hands on that orb.” 

“I see Zaldereon’s gotten to you, that old bastard.”

“I think that he has a fair point. If we can close the Breach, if we can close the Rifts, we win half the war. No more demons.”

“That’s a lot of ‘if’s,” Cullen pointed out. “Or we could cut the head off the snake and be done with it.”

“The snake has two heads, and one happens to be a dragon,” Dorian disagreed.

“The Arcanist Hall is highly fortified. We only have one chance at it.”

“One chance is all we need.” 

“You mages,” Cullen began fiercely, and stiffened up when Dorian kissed him, his hands going up to Dorian’s shoulders, and he allowed himself to be pushed down, over the bed, their legs tangling as Dorian straddled narrow hips. The beautiful black coat ended up on the floor, as did Cullen’s undershirt, and lust was a good look on _this_ Cullen, with his hard eyes and gloved hands high on Dorian’s flanks, stroking as though Cullen still wasn’t too sure if Dorian was truly here. 

Dorian pressed lower, licking over old scars that he recognised, newer ones that he didn’t, loved how muscle twitched and jumped under his lips; he could feel how hard Cullen was in his breeches, could smell him, as he licked down the scattering of gold hairs that dipped down past the hem. 

“Get up here,” Cullen gasped, “Turn around.” Dorian bit out a gasp of his own but obeyed, shifting his knees up on the bed, to press precariously beside Cullen’s shoulders, braced over Cullen’s body even as Cullen leaned up, pressing a kiss to the tented arch of Dorian’s breeches even as Dorian fumbled with Cullen’s laces, cursed, and fumbled again. 

Cullen’s gloves slowed him down: Dorian had already drawn out Cullen’s lovely, long cock when Cullen was still swearing quietly and tugging at Dorian’s knots, and when he lapped teasingly at the tip, Cullen bit out a yelp, hips jumping from the bed. “Help me out here,” Cullen growled, then he groaned a hoarse, “Ah _fuuuck_ -“ instead as Dorian merely smirked and fed all that swollen flesh into his mouth, wrapping a palm around the rest and tugging, urging Cullen to buck.

There was another curse, then Dorian felt his laces come free, Cullen rocking up his hips even as he shifted up onto an elbow, by the sound of it, his tongue sloppy and unsteady on Dorian’s bared cock, the fit uncomfortable like this, not that Cullen seemed to care, jacking Dorian roughly with fingers made slippery from spit, sucking at the tip. There was no rhythm to this, not as Dorian purred, “Come on, _Divine_. Make me feel this,” and Cullen obliged, bracing himself, thrusting up into Dorian’s throat, hard enough that Dorian gagged, moaning, letting himself just _take_ it, all of Cullen’s desperation and fear and temper. 

It wasn’t until Cullen leaned up, and worked a bruising bite high up along Dorian’s inner thighs that Dorian whimpered, shaking, lust all white noise in his blood, and felt Cullen jerk up in another brutal thrust before he spilled. Dorian drank it all, because he was feeling generous, lapping up the last spilled drops when he was one, and groaned as Cullen tugged him up, tipping his hips higher, though the pull that he made on Dorian’s cock was teasing.

“My turn,” Dorian grit out, a little breathlessly, and pointedly kissed limp flesh.

“I’ve been thinking of this for too long to rush it,” Cullen disagreed, and pressed his smirk into the no doubt reddening bite he had left on Dorian’s thigh when Dorian groaned.


	14. Chapter 14

I.

They lingered in Vol Dorma for days longer than they intended: Dorian found himself reluctant to return to Minrathous, to the blackened, demon-infested carcass of a city he had known and loved. Vol Dorma was mostly untouched by the civil war, even if the city _was_ crowded, its ability to fend for itself starting to stretch past the limit.

Breakfast today was a crust of bread and some butter, because rations were tight and not even Zaldereon enjoyed a better share than anyone else. Dorian didn’t mind, although being hungry was an utterly novel experience, both for himself and for Felix, and he ate slowly, trying to make it last, reading the latest reports with his spymaster. Cullen was away, conducting the morning mass at the Vol Dorma Chantry, and wouldn’t be expected back for at least another hour. 

“We probably should return to Minrathous tomorrow, at the latest,” Felix noted, trying to stifle a yawn. Felix had been staying up again, judging from the hollowness of his eyes, trying desperately to catch up to everything that had happened over the last year. Most of their little birds were either dead, defected, or had gone over to the Chantry: Felix clearly felt the loss of their network keenly.

“I know. I’ve been discussing the matter of the orb with the Vol Dorma mages. I’m convinced that retrieving it is, as Zaldereon mentioned, absolutely necessary.”

“And _I_ think that if Leonthius believes that we have only one chance at attacking the Arcanist Hall, he probably means it,” Felix mutters. “Maker’s balls, Dorian. I never signed up for this.” He shot Dorian a weary, humourless grin. “The world coming apart at the seams, civil war, my network in tatters… To tell you the truth, I really, really have no idea what we’re meant to do next. I feel like we were shot into a future that we’re still struggling to understand, and we’re adrift, just being pulled back and forth by people whom we _thought_ we once knew.”

“Best not to think about that,” Dorian patted Felix’s wrist. “If it helps, presiding over a civil war was also not what I had in mind when I agreed to the Archon’s seat, let alone all this business of time magic and demon armies and Fade breaches. But so what if your contacts are gone? Make new ones. We’ve got… people in the Venatori whom I think we should reach out to. Your father, for one. My mother. Maybe even Elias. And now that the Chantry’s sharing their network-“

“The Chantry?” Felix interrupted, a little grimly. “Dorian, have you attended one of Leonthius’ masses? Recently?”

“…No? Why?”

“You should. It’ll scare you. He’s preaching to fanatics. More, he’s fanning the flames… making it worse. Turning this into a religious war.” Felix shuddered. “He’s charismatic and looks good in that armour, that’s the problem.”

“If this is leading up to yet another joke about his arse…”

“Maker, I wish it was,” Felix retorted. “Seriously. This war? It’ll get out of control. Getting the soporati so worked up? Even if we win… it’s not going to be worth it. Religious wars never usually end well. Even if we win, I bet you, one civil war will just flow into another, especially with all our institutions in tatters. It wasn’t like this before,” Felix added solemnly. “A year before. But I think it was always getting there. We-” 

Felix swallowed the rest of his words abruptly - Zaldereon was hurrying over, flushed and excited, behind him the Chair of Pre-Blight Artefacts, if Dorian remembered correctly, a thin, pale woman with a prune-like face and wispy gray hair, with forever darting gray eyes. “Archon!” Zaldereon settled down at the table, and pushed a crumpled piece of paper over. “Look at this!”

Dorian smoothed out the paper. It was a drawing of a staff, rendered hurriedly, with a skull at the top. “Not quite in good taste. I prefer the dragon tipped ones, myself, but-“

“Not that, not that,” Zaldereon interrupted excitedly. “Look at the runes on the shaft! A Chantry spy just sent over that drawing. From the College of the _Arts_. It’s in the Bifurcation Laboratory!” 

“… it’s… all right… and so…?” Felix asked slowly. 

“That’s _Tempest_ for certain,” the Chair said, her voice as bird-like as the rest of her, high and brittle. “It’s a _time magic_ artefact, Archon. Time magic!” 

“Fredrick - that’s my Dragonologist friend in the Inquisition - did mention something about the Inquisitor having found and closed an old Fade breach in a set of ruins in the Western Approach. He said that there were ancient Imperium documents in there, and the bodies, although fresh, were all wearing Tevinter gear that was _centuries_ out of date! Whatever had frozen the bodies in time had already been removed, however, though the rift had been left alone,” Zaldereon chimed in. “He sent over a dragonology scroll that he had found. _Ancient_ Tevene. I had to pull a great number of favours to get it translated at the time.”

“The researchers of old were very careful with failsafes,” the Chair agreed. “Staves like _Tempest_ were created just for that sort of purpose. To stop time in the event of a… a _surge_ event. Like a blood magic ritual going very wrong.” 

“And so…” Felix continued, with studied patience.

“And so you think that this ‘Tempest’ is the core of the time magic spell that swept Tevinter?” Dorian hazarded.

“Yes!” Zaldereon beamed. “Exactly. When you mentioned the spell, I was curious. Set some people to making enquiries, particularly within the College of the Arts. You were right. Not only was a spell _used_ , but it’s being _maintained_. By _this_. I’m almost certain.”

“Only ‘almost’?” Dorian asked wearily.

“Things like these never have a full certainty,” the Chair said, sounding slightly hurt.

“It’s magic, after all,” Zaldereon agreed. “But what an _interesting_ breakthrough in time magic research! A conversion of failsafe artefacts into continuously channelled forma disruption! Of _course_. Time magic always reverts back to, shall we say, ‘prime time’, when the forma dissipates: reality is elastic, but not _as_ elastic - Aesthia’s _Theory of Inductive Forma_ is quite clear on that aspect. Particularly a forma like a time spell, which is particularly disruptive to the elasticity of reality.”

“Pre-Blight researchers, however, found a way to ‘freeze’ time continuously, in the event of a catastrophe, to allow others to funnel resources in place to fix the problem,” the Chair added earnestly. “ _Tempest_ is but one such artefact in my notes, but I’ve never had the chance to even study one before. Most of these sorts of failsafe artefacts were lost in the qunari wars. How exciting!”

“The research is clear,” Zaldereon added, “That when the failsafe is disturbed, the failsafe unwinds. It breaks the circuit. Reality snaps back into place. Forma becomes inductive once more.” 

“… Everything the two of you just said just went completely over my head,” Felix admitted, with a blink.

Zaldereon scowled. “Are you really Gereon’s boy?”

“ _That aside,_ ” Dorian said hastily, as Felix bristled, “So Tempest freezes time. But that’s obviously isn’t what’s happened. Time is still moving… they just… somehow made it such that time had only slowed for them alone, and-“

“The Venatori have Gereon Alexius,” the Chair pointed out. “The foremost expert on time magic-“

“Who _wasn’t_ part of the Venatori until _after_ the time spell happened,” Felix said flatly. The matter of Gereon’s defection was still a sore point with Felix.

“Whether it was Laetia’s doing, or someone else,” Dorian said soothingly, “Are you certain that… disturbing this staff… will cause everything to go back to the way it was? One _year_ ago?” 

“Well,” Zaldereon blinked. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then what did you mean by reality ‘snapping into place’?” Felix demanded.

“Reality exists in balance with the Fade,” Zaldereon explained. “Time reverting to the start of the spell is one possibility. What’s just as possible is that the stress of this unnatural spell being in place, that’s damaging reality? That might be the reason behind the growing Breach. The Fade’s starting to bleed through, to compensate.”

“So the orb in the Arcanist Hall does… what?”

“It was a _theory_ that the orb was causing the breach,” Zaldereon said patiently. “It could still be true, of course. But I’m certain that we need the orb to close the rifts - just as the Inquisitor once managed. As to _theories_ of what is causing the breach, it’s quite possible that it’s caused by this staff, as well.”

“So now we have… two… targets?” Dorian grimaced. “That’ll go over nicely with the Divine.” 

“I don’t know, Dorian,” Felix aid, frowning at the sketch. “Maybe this is our ticket home. Resetting time. Making sure none of this will ever happen.” 

“We _are_ home, Felix,” Dorian disagreed, though he rubbed a palm over his face. “I’m going to need more information about Tempest. Zaldereon, explain it again please. In smaller words, this time. Not all of us are up to speed with thaumaturgical theories.”

Zaldereon wrinkled his nose. “ _Well!_ You should be. What is the world coming to? When I was your age-”

II.

Dorian had to explain everything twice to Cullen before Cullen finally raised a palm. He had managed to catch Cullen on the tail end of ‘Communion’, which seemed to be an indeterminable series of soporati queuing up to receive a personal blessing from the Divine.

Some of those blessed had _wept_. Felix had shot Dorian a pointed look, and Dorian had been unsettled all of the way through the rest of Communion, through to finally having some time to talk to Cullen in a hastily cleared out conference room within the Vol Dorma Chantry.

“So,” Cullen said slowly, glancing between Dorian and Felix, slouched in the wide chair at the head of the room’s long table, “You’re saying that the time spell was ‘most probably’ caused by this… new artefact… in the College of the Arts… and that disturbing this artefact would break the ‘channelled’ spell, causing reality to reset?” 

“Yes…?” Dorian was sitting on the edge of the table, balanced with his palms pressed behind him, but Felix had opted for a seat, elbows propped on the pitted old wood. 

“I’ve also talked to some of the Chairs and read their notes,” Felix chimed in. “I’m quite certain that their hypothesis is correct.”

Cullen rubbed his temple for a moment. “You mages. This is why you shouldn’t be allowed to make so many toys. You’d all tear reality apart just to see if it’s possible.”

“Excuse me,” Dorian said, a little offended, but Cullen exhaled exasperatedly, cutting him off.

“All right. I suppose a determined force of templars and mages can break into the College of the Arts through the underground catacombs-“ 

“What?” Dorian blinked. “You’re fine with the plan? Just like that?”

“The College of the Arts _isn’t_ the Arcanist Hall, Dorian,” Cullen said dryly. “It isn’t, for example, surrounded by a fortified wall _and_ a series of barracks containing, shall we say, most of the Venatori troops _and_ mages sequestered in Minrathous. Nor does attacking it run the risk of accidentally activating the Minrathous Juggernauts.” 

“… I see your point.” Dorian said, still surprised. “About reality ‘snapping back into place’, just so you know-“

“You think perhaps that time will reset? Back a year?” Cullen cut in. “Good.”

“ _Good_?” Dorian echoed, a little hurt despite himself, and unable, perhaps, to hide it in time - Cullen frowned, then he looked over to Felix.

“Felix, could you wait outside for a moment? My apologies.”

“All right,” Felix said, if doubtfully, and left the room. The moment the door closed, Cullen was up on his feet, tugging Dorian closer, such that Dorian’s thighs were bracketing his hips, his left hand curling lightly over the back of Dorian’s neck, pulling him over for a kiss. There was nothing of apology in it, and little of gentleness, but Dorian leaned up for it anyway, hungry even for this, no background nagging thought in his mind that he was being used, no uncomfortable questions about motives. 

Here, now, at the end of the world, it felt in times like this that it was just the two of them, Cullen’s embrace warm and immutable and unselfconscious, his touch rough with an honest desire that Dorian loved. 

Loved.

Maker. Dorian had been a fool about this after all. 

Perhaps Cullen sensed something. His kiss gentled, gloved hands palming up Dorian’s spine and back down, and the first breath that Dorian took between them both was shaky. 

“I’ve loved you since the day of the Senate vote,” Cullen murmured, hushed, before Dorian could speak, and when Dorian inhaled sharply, added, “I didn’t think that you could get all those Magisters under control: I wasn’t sure if you even had something like that in you. But somehow you did. You kept a firm hand on the debate, all those days, spoke passionately when it was your turn on the floor… and didn’t even bat an eye when your own father spoke against you… even if the Chantry hadn’t already decided before the debate to vote for you, I would have. You were amazing.” 

“So politics is the Divine’s secret weakness,” Dorian said, though his voice was too unsteady for the quip to have any humour in it, and Cullen chuckled softly, brushing a kiss over Dorian’s forehead.

“It’s good to hold you like this,” Cullen said quietly, palms settling over Dorian’s thighs. “Not wondering whether there was something more to it… no one whispering in my ear that I should ‘make use’ of it.” 

Dorian touched his fingertips to Cullen’s cheek. “I’ve thought the same.” 

“But,” Cullen added, his gaze steady and frank, “Have you any idea how many people have died just this year? They _razed_ entire holdings, Dorian. Asariel, Marnus Pell… Perivantium… When the qunari attacked, the Venatori used their demon army against them, and used soporati to fuel blood magic rites. They beat back the Qunari, but the cost…” Cullen trailed off, with an unsteady breath. “And Maker only knows what they’ve done to the South.” 

“I thought that you weren’t interested in a magic-based solution to this war.” 

“I wasn’t interested in attacking the Arcanist Hall until I was certain that the full commitment of our forces would glean at least a chance to end the war,” Cullen corrected. “All this ‘maybe’, ‘most likely’, ‘my hypothesis’ conclusions about that damned orb? I’m not interested in wasting lives to ‘quite possibly’ prove the theories of a handful of old mages correct. But the College of the Arts is a softer target. One that I’ve already been considering for a while, if only for morale.” 

“To turn back time. To the way things were before,” Dorian said, a little dully, and got a kiss over his eyes, over his nose, his mouth.

“To turn back time,” Cullen agreed carefully, and tapped the fingers of his infected hand meaningfully on the table, beside Dorian’s hip. “To the way things were before.” 

“Maybe. Zaldereon’s not entirely sure if that’s what will happen.”

“But if there’s even a _chance_ … if all those people who have died in this war never have to die…” Cullen trailed off. “That’s something worth fighting for. Besides,” he added, when Dorian started to speak, “At the start, when you arrived in this time? You used to talk about ‘undoing’ the time spell. Resetting the board.” 

“That was at the start-“

“So for me… a part of me has always known that this wouldn’t last. Not like this.” Cullen continued carefully. “The time we’ve had since has been precious to me. If the ‘reset’ doesn’t turn back time, so be it, I’ll be glad. After all: you’ll be here, and that’s a miracle in itself - it’s given me hope. But if you could go _back_ , if none of this had to happen…” Cullen brushed a slower, lingering kiss on Dorian’s mouth. “Just remember. One year ago? I was already in love with you.”


	15. Chapter 15

I.

Of all people, it was Arron Antias who broke the deadlock, with a grunt, and a, “Well, that’s the first logical suggestion I’ve heard from your boy ever since he became the Archon, Halward.”

“It’s a waste of time,” Ciceron protested determinedly. “Disturbing this spell could do worse! Imagine the magnitude of the backlash in breaking a spell that has encompassed Tevinter! It’s all these young mages,” Ciceron said irritably, “Always wanting to poke their fingers into the fabric of the universe. In my day-”

Dorian raised an eyebrow at Zaldereon, who sighed and deigned to step in. “I’m hardly young, Ciceron, and this was my idea, not the Archon’s. I’ve reviewed all the research at hand-“

There was a derisive sniff. “Research!” 

“-and I’m certain that interrupting the modified failsafe will be instrumental in turning the tide of this war.” 

“Or it could do worse, as Ciceron said,” Halward retorted, and Dorian was, all of a sudden, extremely sick of his father breaking ranks whenever it mattered.

“Zaldereon, why don’t you show all of your research to Ciceron? Father, could I have a word?”

Varen raised an eyebrow, but Octavia shot Dorian a sympathetic look over the table, even as Cullen’s mouth quirked wryly upwards. Halward nodded curtly, and allowed himself to be pulled aside - not to Cullen’s room, but to a store room on the lower level of the Minrathous headquarters. Curious stares followed them as they descended the stairs to the room, and there was barely enough space within it for the both of them, packed as the room was with boxes of recently scavenged supplies, and smelling a little persistently of dried fish.

Halward folded his arms, unruffled as ever, be it standing in a packed store room with his son, or facing the Senate, or presiding over one of House Pavus’ many, lavish parties, a year and more ago.

“I never asked you why you voted against me in the Senate,” Dorian said flatly, when he closed the door. 

“Were you even listening when I spoke out?” Halward retorted evenly. “I said that now was not the time. That it was not an appropriate response to the Venatori.”

Dorian’s lip curled. “Oh, I listened. Funny how things turned out, hm?”

Halward’s eyes narrowed. “Dorian, if you _hadn’t_ forced the Venatori’s hand, it’s likely that they wouldn’t have resorted to forbidden magic. You _forced_ their return from the South, in numbers, with Corypheus’ support. Forced them to unite behind a single goal - the repossession of Tevinter - _before_ we were ready. Look at how close the vote went. You barely had the power to enforce your will on the Senate - not a good look for a new Archon - and you were scrambling to patch the holes in your support, after the vote, undermining the confidence of people who _had_ voted for you. It was a bad move, executed too early, and too poorly.”

“And when would we have been ready? When the red templars were already here? Besides, given that there was _already_ a breach in the sky, it’s _not_ as though Corypheus needed very much of a push in the way of experimenting with ‘forbidden’ magic, did he?”

“That aside,” Halward said evenly, “I accepted that I lost, and _if you recall_ , I was very accommodating when the Chantry decided to investigate the Venatori presence in Asariel.” 

“It wasn’t as though you had a choice.”

“I could have made things difficult for them,” Halward shot back. “But I chose not to. Because the Senate’s vote is law, at least to me, and I had my say, and the majority vote swung in your favour. Don’t take politics so personally, Dorian.”

“No room for sentiment, hm?” Dorian sneered. 

“Precisely,” Halward said coldly. “Learn that and you’ll hold on to your current position longer.” 

“So enlighten me,” Dorian said, an edge creeping into his tone, “What am I doing wrong this time?”

“The College of the Arts is a pointless target. We should stick to the Divine’s original plan. Funnel in our forces, wait until Corypheus returns, and strike at the Arcanist Hall.”

“ _Pointless?_ ”

“Zaldereon says that he is ‘certain’ that this staff is the lynchpin behind the time magic that gave the Venatori the advantage. Firstly, Dorian, I have known Zaldereon for longer than _you_ have been alive, and _I_ know that he has a far different opinion of what constitutes the concept of ‘certainty’, compared to _normal_ people.” 

“Secondly,” Halward continued, ignoring Dorian’s attempt to interrupt. “Ciceron is right. Have you any idea what the backlash of a powerful spell going utterly wrong is like? I’ve _seen_ it. When I was studying in Vyrantium, one of Magister Aelius’ spells went very wrong. He was attempting to map out the Circle, using Force magic echolocation, but he miscalculated somewhere, and his little Force magic model of the Circle shattered. It blew a hole in the side of the Circle’s Eastern Tower, killed him and all of his apprentices. And that spell was nothing on the scale of what has been wrought with this Tempest.” 

“Father-“

“One of Aelius’ apprentices,” Halward added flatly, “Was Ciceron’s youngest sister. They were close. The best of friends. The spell stripped the flesh from half of her, flayed it right off the bone, painted it on the wall behind her. They had to bury her in a closed casket. You, and Felix, you think that all you need to do is ‘dislodge’ this artefact and everything will be right again? More likely, you’ll destroy Tevinter itself! What’s left of this place!”

“I won’t just be walking up to that thing and… and kicking it off kilter, or whatever you think that I intend to do!” Dorian retorted. “I’m a graduate of the Circle of Vyrantium, with a Masters from the College of the Arts; I was _apprenticed_ to Gereon, my _thesis_ was on time magic! I’ve the best chance of anyone of unworking the modified failsafe!”

“Or the spell might tear you apart when it breaks,” Halward said, and there was a catch in his voice, this time. “Maker, you’re lucky that the _last_ time you modified a time spell on the fly all it did was send you into the _future_.”

“You’re afraid,” Dorian realized, and felt unsettled all over again. 

Halward, _afraid?_ For all of Dorian’s life, whether he liked it or not, Halward Pavus had been a constant presence, unyielding, forever self-assured. Once, all that Dorian had ever wanted was to be like his father. Taking a second look at Halward now, seeing how shaken Halward was behind the haggard lines etched into his face… was almost as disorienting as the gigantic breach torn in the sky.

“Of course I’m afraid,” Halward said softly. “Dorian. From the moment you came into my life, you’ve meant the world to me. Maybe it hasn’t been obvious to you; Maker knows I’ve made mistakes. But you’re my _son_. No parent should have to bury their children. I can’t go through all of that again.”

“Have some faith,” Dorian said, struggling to gentle his voice, though on impulse, he reached over to clasp his father’s hands. 

Halward stiffened, as though startled at the touch, and for a moment, Dorian was tempted to ask what had gone wrong. When he was a child, _Halward_ had meant the world to him. Before all the wrongs they had meted on each other, all the arguments and strong words, all the love that had twisted into loathing. In a way, his break from his family had been all the more bitter because, once, Dorian had loved his father most in all the world.

“You’re convinced that this… that invading the College of the Arts… is the best option?” Halward asked tiredly. “Absolutely convinced?”

“I am.” 

“Very well then.” Halward said reluctantly. “If you feel that you must go through with this… then at the very least, this time, I will be there.”

II.

Maevaris arrived in Minrathous through a circuitous route, part water, part Deep Roads, landing at a hidden cove close to Minrathous and going underground the rest of the way. Gone were the beautifully fitted gowns, feathers and gems: she was wearing light armour, in a coat of little silvery scales over a black knee-length jacket, and a delicate vest of ringmail. Dwarven-made, Dorian decided, studying the armour, as he pushed out of the crowds in the aqueduct base to greet her.

“Archon,” Maevaris’ eyebrows rose. “So the rumours were right. Congratulations on your miraculous resurrection.”

“It wasn’t exactly a resurrection,” Dorian allowed, though he shook Maevaris’ hand warmly.

Felix was next, grinning as he clasped her hand. “It’s so nice to finally see a pretty face after all the days we’ve spent dealing with all these old codgers.” 

“Oh, I don’t think that I could compare to the Divine,” Maevaris said, with a wink at Dorian which he pointedly ignored. Behind her, Grunmar stamped over, to shake Dorian’s hand, then Felix’s.

“Well, _I’m_ pleased t’see that the two of you made it out all right,” Grunmar said gruffly. “So, ‘far as Mae’s explained things to me, we’re gonna be hitting up the College of the Arts? Resetting time?”

“Or at least stopping the Breach from getting even worse,” Dorian allowed. “Resetting time would be a nice bonus.”

Grunmar grunted. “All right then. Can’t say I understand it all meself, but you an’ young Felix here going missing sure nailed the last fuckin’ hole in the Tevinter venture. Sure, them Venatori have been buying lyrium from us still, but the Ambassadoria’s finally pulled their collective heads out of their arses and realized that Corypheus’ set to go right from ‘buying from the dwarves’ to ‘enslaving all the dwarves’. So, we’re finally going to help. Fuckin’ _finally_. ‘Scuse me, Archon, but I s’pose I’ll go break the good news to the Divine. Got to coordinate our forces.” 

“Thank you for your support,” Dorian ventured.

“Don’t thank me. This should’a all happened earlier. But us dwarves love our technicalities, and what with you disappearing, there was no Archon about to invoke the old treaties, and so on. Now you’re back, that’s all fixed.” Grunmar ambled past, heading up the stairway to the mezzanine chamber.

“I haven’t been able to empty out Qarinus,” Maevaris said briskly, as they followed at a more sedate pace. “Ventures to protect, you see. But I’ve got most of the Qarinus Senior Enchanters with me, and their private guard, _and_ Grunmar and his people. The First Enchanter is back home, holding the fort.” 

“Oh,” Dorian said, surprised. “This was really meant to be a small task force.”

“I know. I read the plans,” Maevaris said dryly. “And I think perhaps it’ll be better if the Divine had more cards to play. Despite what Vyrantium and Vol Dorma might think, after all, the College of the Arts in Minrathous was the foremost centre for the study of magical talent, my dear. Respectfully, I don’t think attacking it will be as easy as the Divine might think.”

“Well, that’s _such_ an optimistic way to think about it,” Felix blinked.

“A _practical_ way, darling. Practical. Felix, dear, did you try reaching out to Gereon?”

“I did. No answer.” Felix scowled. “I tried reaching out to Dorian’s mother, as well.”

“Oh, the lady Julia is having the time of her life in Qarinus, believe me,” Maevaris sighed. “She had no love for her father, the First Enchanter. We’ve been fighting a very bloody stalemate between her half of Qarinus and mine for the better part of this year. Your dear mother is ruthless to the bone.” 

“I know,” Dorian said wearily. “I have no illusions about her, believe me.”

“Caelestis has been an apt pupil of hers, at that. That little firebrand just devastated part of Marothius with her leashed Pride demons… it’s really rather curious how many families have split right down the civil war divide because of acrimonious relations with their fathers, actually.” Maevaris smiled thinly. 

“What happened to Minerva and the other sisters?”

“Caelestis murdered them first. Good news for you, perhaps. It certainly committed Arron to your cause. That scheming firstborn of his whom you were once meant to marry was the apple of his eye.” 

Dorian nodded slowly. He had loathed Minerva, but not to the point of wishing that she was dead… she had been brilliant in her own way, one of the foremost experts on ambient magic disruption - even if she had been absolutely fucking vicious. “That’ll certainly give me some perspective if I actually do end up a year back in time.”

“If you do,” Maevaris said blithely, “Send that girl to me. That kind of natural gift for mayhem could be _so_ useful if properly honed. Oh, my dear,” she added dryly, when Dorian blinked, “I don’t hold grudges in politics. Whatever will be the point?”

At the top of the stair, on the map of the aqueducts, Grunmar was busily drawing over the routes with a pencil. “The existing pathways in are watched,” Cullen explained, as he watched. “Grunmar and his people are confident that they can make other ways in.” 

“Eh, we built this whole network,” Grunmar said, without looking up. “There’s service paths that we closed up behind us when it was done. Made it all look uniform and pretty. They can be opened right up again if we please. Give us another way up to the College of the Arts that don’t involve wading through so many demons.” 

“Our militia is used to fighting alongside offensive magic. The dwarves are not. I suggest we split our forces, come in here, and here,” Cullen pointed at two different scribbled new routes on the map. “The dwarves can be accompanied by Maevaris and her mages, in a support role.” 

Maevaris nodded. “Qarinus’ Resistance is used to the dwarves. As you probably guessed from the armour.” 

“Your team will attack first, close to the Archives, and move towards the Arcana, as though you’re attacking the Chairs. You’ll be the distraction that we need to come up here,” Cullen pointed at an exit close to the catacombs beneath the Great Library, “Where we’ll make our way up to the Bifurcation Laboratory. Knight-Captain Claudia and Arron will lead a sub-force to block the Eastern entryway. Zaldereon and his mages, and Knight-Lieutenant Gaius’ men will handle the North. Ciceron and Octavia will hold our retreat. Dorian, Felix, Halward and I will take a force up through the Library-”

“Is that wise?” Ciceron objected. “You and Halward have been the leaders of this Resistance for most of this year. If there _is_ a backlash from this spell…”

“Halward will hold the Library entryway to the Laboratory,” Cullen continued, ignoring the objection. “I’ll enter the Laboratory with the Archon. My abilities should be able to help dampen and contain the effects of any backlash.”

Dorian tried not to sneak a glance at his father, but thankfully, Halward said nothing. “Zaldereon tells me that most likely, one of two things will happen. Time resets to a year before, in which case, nothing we do next will matter,” Cullen added. “Secondly, we break the channelled spell, but still have to get out of there. Depending on the resistance that we meet, upon achieving our primary objective, we should attempt to take control of the College of the Arts. If that’s unfeasible, Arron or Maevaris will signal the retreat.”

Arron and Maevaris exchanged glances, one openly suspicious, the other smug. “Three blasts from a dwarven war-horn,” Maevaris said sweetly. “You won’t miss it, dear.”

“You’re going native,” Arron grunted. “Mine will be a phase trifecta.”

“Of course. We do so love our fireworks.”

“I don’t get to make a decision on retreating?” Zaldereon asked, though he grinned.

Ciceron rolled his eyes. “Just try and keep your sticky hands off the Archives.”

“The last time Zaldereon was put in charge of a retreat,” Cullen said dryly, to Dorian, “We found him nose-deep in a book in the Library of the Circle we were meant to be defending.”

“All those books at Marnus Pell,” Zaldereon grumbled. “Priceless! What a damned waste. Dorian, if you do get to travel in time, have the Circle at Marnus Pell install fireproofing posthaste.”

“And tell me to disinherit my youngest daughter,” Arron added, with a grimace. “That little monster took after her mother in more ways than one.”

“Oh,” Octavia perked up. “If we’re going to be passing on messages to our previous selves, would you be so kind as to send me word about-“

“ _Peace_ ,” Cullen interrupted quickly. “Gentlemen - and ladies. I suggest that we rest, and prepare ourselves. We’ll attack the College at the break of dawn.”

The chamber slowly cleared, with Felix the last to leave, hesitating at the top of the stairs before Dorian nodded to him. When they were alone, Cullen stepped closer, to press a palm against the small of Dorian’s back, to pull them together.

“It’ll be a hard day tomorrow. More so for Felix,” Dorian murmured. “Gereon’s probably in the College.”

“Very likely. Chantry spies have given me a good understanding of the troop movements and security in the College. But I’ve learned not to underestimate the Venatori.” 

“I mean,” Dorian said patiently, “We might have to kill him. Won’t we?”

Cullen’s stare was calm. “Nothing in this time matters.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Even so,” Cullen said softly, “He’s made his choice.” Cullen buried his mouth against Dorian’s neck, lips brushing against skin, his breathing turning unsteady, for a moment, his arms tightening around Dorian’s flanks. “Maker. You know what I’m afraid of? That you find a way to step back in time, but for the rest of us, everything remains the same. That time will… bisect, or something, and I lose you again. Forever.” 

“And I’m afraid that if I go back, this will never happen,” Dorian rapped his knuckles on Cullen’s breastplate. “That we’ll let our roles swallow us, with our doubts and fears. That we’ll never get to this point, ever again. It’ll all have been a dream, except I’m the only one who never wakes up all the way.”

Cullen let out a choked, strangled sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a moan, as he pressed a ticklish kiss over Dorian’s jaw. “If so, then I ask you to be patient with me,” he said finally. “Because I do want this, even if it might not seem so, a year ago. I don’t just want to have a ‘meeting’ now and then to scratch an itch. We _can_ make it work. Just don’t give up on me. Promise?”

“It’s a promise,” Dorian agreed, and the kiss edged over to his mouth, over his cheek.


	16. Chapter 16

I.

The Plan, insofar as it involved getting into the College of the Arts, worked perfectly, to an extent that Dorian now harboured serious doubts about the general security of Minrathous as a whole. From the look on Felix’s face, as Grunmar fiddled with something unseen again in the corridor they were in and yet _another_ apparently seamless stone wall slid back and to a side, Dorian was fairly sure that one of Felix’s first orders upon their return to their time - if they ever did return - would be to order a sweep of the aqueducts.

Other than secret doorways, dwarves didn’t run towards subtlety in their architecture, and even their idea of ‘service corridors’ comfortably fit the invading force, standing five abreast, shoulder to shoulder; each ‘corridor’ fitted neatly within a wall, and apparently all intersecting beyond or under the aqueduct itself. If the Ambassadoria ever decided to go into the assassination business up above, they would make a _fortune_.

This hidden door led down a small corridor to a forked path, and Grunmar sniffed the air. “All right, Archon. Here’s where we part. Mae and I are going to the left. You lot and Hilde here will go to the right. She’ll get you up where you need t’go.”

Beside Dorian, Grunmar’s sister nodded. Like her brother, she was now nearly completely encased in dwarven armour: a businesslike set, nothing ceremonial, plates overlapping like a beetle’s carapace. Brother and sister looked almost the same from afar: matching armour, matching House crests, matching handaxes and shields - the only difference was that Grunmar was a little taller and broader and had a beard. 

“Race you up there,” Hilde said gruffly.

“Now, Hilde, you know that ain’t in the plans. We go up first, start the party, then you lot head up,” Grunmar said. Hilde muttered something probably rude in the dwarven tongue, and clanked over, and Dorian nearly winced as brother and sister knocked helms, the clang echoing down the corridors. “Righto. See you on the other side, Archon.” 

“Thank you for your help,” Dorian shook Grunmar’s hand firmly, then Maevaris’, or he tried to - she hugged him instead, tightly, then Felix. 

“Don’t get yourselves killed, boys,” Maevaris said, then clasped hands with Hilde, and started to stride down to the left, followed by Grunmar and the ranks of dwarves, Qarinus mages and militia.

Hilde waited until her brother’s forces cleared out, then she marched over to the front of their ranks, where Cullen waited, tower shield strapped to his left arm, his right hand curled around the hilt of his longsword. They were on the move.

“How far do these tunnels go?” Felix asked Hilde, as they walked, the gloom lit up only by the magelights summoned by the mages dotting the ranks.

Hilde grunted. “You won’t get that out of me, pretty boy. Grunmar’s orders. Trade secret, see?”

“But we’re allies!” Felix protested. 

“Yeah,” Hilde said evenly. “But I don’t tell you where I shit, and I don’t ask you where _you_ shit.”

“… Suddenly it occurs to me,” Dorian said, into the shocked silence, “That I didn’t actually get introduced to you at Grunmar’s soiree, milady.” 

“Oh, that,” Hilde sounded amused. “I’m not allowed out into those sort’a ‘do’s any longer. Seems I scare all the humans. ‘Sides, I was more interested in running the Kal-Sharok routing than mixing about eating tiny little shrimps on biscuits.”

“How did that turn out?” Dorian asked curiously. 

“Not too well. Once you upped and disappeared, the Imperium went all to hell, so the Ambassadoria decided t’batten down the hatches and wait it all out. Or, more accurately, they were gonna get ready to up and turn arse over leather back to Orzammar if they had’ta: I’ve spent all of last year being bored to the Maker’s tits and back. I’m ready to start axing some demons inna face. So. Thanks for inviting me to _this_ party, Archon.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dorian said, a little faintly, even as he saw Cullen’s eyes crinkle with humour behind his helm. 

“Well. Here we are,” Hilde said, after a while, when they came to a section of wall along a pathway which was starting to curve, very gently, to the left. “This here bit is under that giant lake full of little fishies that you humans love so much.” 

“Wait a minute,” Felix said, blinking. “If you and Grunmar and the rest go up, isn’t that going to the Surface? Won’t you become casteless?” 

“Now that be a fair point,” Hilde agreed, “But on account of us running the gambit that you be turning back time, Grunmar and I figured that we could do whatever the hell we want now and it wouldn’t matter. As long as we get you to that staff, aye?”

“We’re not even sure that _that_ might happen!” Dorian objected. 

“Well, tough,” Hilde shrugged. “Say you do what you do and the hole in the sky closes, but everything else don’t rewind? We reckon that’s good enough for us, as well. ‘Sides, technically, we ain’t going above ground. There be entire levels of the College of the Arts that are _underground_. Like everything from here up to the Great Library.”

“And dwarves do love their technicalities,” Felix said dryly.

“That’s right. I don’t have a burning urge to see this magic staff, t’be honest, so if it’s all right with you, I’m sticking with Octavia and her friends, covering your arses.”

“Very well,” Cullen agreed. “Thank you for all your help so far, Hilde.”

“Eh, we didn’t do it for you, pretty boy,” Hilde retorted. “Far as the Ambassadoria’s concerned, you Chantry don’t know where your arses are even if you had both your hands out lookin’. Religion’s a bum thing when we’re this far from the Shaperate, and we’d really rather that people don’t drum up the fire an’ blood thing. Bad for business.” 

“Fair enough,” Cullen said, though he sounded amused.

There was a faint, rumbling blast, echoing even through the stone, one, then two in quick succession, and Hilde chuckled, harsh and low in her helm. “Nothin’ like runeforged horn t’wake the dead. We’re up.” She pressed a complicated pattern with her fingertips into the wall, and a section of it shifted back, with a grinding sound, and slid to the right. 

“Any last words?” Cullen asked Dorian, a little facetiously. 

Dorian tightened his grip on his staff. “Let’s go and save the world.”

II.

The basement of the College of the Arts had, in Dorian’s previous life as an apprentice, only been used as a storeroom for supplies, sometimes also for the occasional experiment that needed to be underground and enclosed by four walls. Now it was some sort of… jail complex, Dorian realized, to his horror, the rows of cells all pitted with red lyrium crystals, that were _growing out of_ the prisoners, like some nightmarish nursery of plants out of fleshy soil. The crystals, even from behind the bars, gave off a warm, almost organic heat, absolutely unnatural, and even Zaldereon seemed unwilling to take a closer look, as they passed in silent, horrified ranks through the corridor between the cells.

Maker, there were so _many_ cells-

“Dorian,” Cullen said, from the front of the ranks - he had moved forward to check the main exit when Dorian had lingered to look at one of the mangled corpses. “You might want to… Dorian, I’m sorry.”

“What about?” Dorian asked, heading over to Cullen’s side, even as Halward looked into the cell that Cullen had been staring into and paled.

 _Paled_.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said again, more gently, when Dorian reached them both, looking into the cell, and- nausea swept him for a moment, making him stumble back, his free hand jumping to his mouth, dizzy with horror and grief. Pinned to the wall by creeping red crystals, most of the spikes jutting out of once smooth, dark flesh, was _Vivienne_ , her back arched against the racks of crystals, as though being pushed up and out of a red wave. 

Crystal had overgrown half of her face, twisting it to the side, as though in repose, her cheek facing the ceiling, and her single remaining eye was closed. 

“Vivienne,” Dorian whispered, and bile rose in his throat all over again, even as his vision blurred. He blinked away the sting, angrily, taking in a deep, shuddering breath, then he gasped when Vivienne’s lips moved, shaping, for a moment, soundless words, her single eye fluttering. 

“Dorian?” Vivienne whispered, and horror warred with pity and grief within him, froze him to the spot. 

“Oh, Maker, Vivienne,” Felix choked out. “Oh, Maker. You’re… you’re going to be all right. We’re going to fix this. Oh Maker-”

Her lips curled for a faint moment, almost dreamily. “There’s a dance on Summerday… ivory willows… five Chants…” her voice faded into a mumble, whispering a nonsense string of words, and this was worse, somehow, far worse. The Venatori had not only broken Vivienne’s body: they had broken her brilliant, beautiful mind. As he watched, Vivienne began to laugh, low and throaty and a little brittle, and he could watch no longer, forcing himself to turn away, to start for the exit, twisting angrily away when his father tried to reach for his arm. Grief was bleeding into rage, and that he welcomed. That he could use. 

“There’s someone else here,” Zaldereon said, further to the right, looking into another cell. “She’s still… wait. That mark on her hand. Isn’t this the Inquisitor?”

Dorian took a moment to forcibly clear his mind, then he walked over to Zaldereon. Strung from the ceiling in chains, thin, but with skin peppered with flakes of lyrium, was a human woman. She had once been beautiful, Dorian thought, but her hair had been shaved, and an ugly, new gash had been drawn up from one lip to under one eye, that turned her lush mouth into a constant sneer. She was covered with rags, fouled and discoloured, her skin bruised with newer, purple marks, and older, greenish ones, scarred, and the nails of her left hand were reddened stumps.

On her right hand, however… on her right hand, a mark burned in a continuous, greenish arcane light. 

“Inquisitor? Inquisitor Trevelyan?” Dorian asked softly, and flinched as the woman stirred, groaning under her breath.

“Get her down,” Cullen said sharply, “But don’t touch her. I know that red lyrium. It’s contagious by touch.”

“How is she still alive?” Dorian asked, startled, as a Chantry scout hurried over to pick the lock. “I thought that Corypheus would’ve killed her first!” 

“The Anchor on her palm,” Zaldereon peered through the rails. “Fredrick mentioned how its existence seemed to vex Corypheus. Perhaps he cannot kill her. Not yet. Not until he repossesses whatever magic she picked up from the orb.”

“I’m right here,” the Inquisitor growled, though her voice was weakened, and she blinked open her eyes, frowning blearily at them. “Are you the cavalry? Well, you’re bloody fucking _late_.” She began to laugh, a hoarse, almost ghoulish sound, on the very edge of sanity.

“Ah…” Dorian blinked. “I, ah, I suppose it’s better late than never. I’m Dorian-“

“ _Dorian_? As in, Archon Dorian?” the Inquisitor blinked again. “Well, I’ll be _damned_. Thought you were dead. Vivienne was so cut up about it.” The scout unlocked the cuffs, and the Inquisitor winced as she landed heavily on the ground, her limbs stiff. “Best not to touch me. I’m infected. But if anyone can spare a bit of healing and find me some gear? I think I’m up to stabbing a few people.”

“… I think we’re going to get along _just_ fine, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, even as he obligingly weaved a touch of healing magic through the Inquisitor, knitting broken bones, sealing wounds, and another scout found a set of armour, a longsword, and a shield. The Inquisitor put on the gear wordlessly, her eyes narrowed, and when she finally straightened up, pulling on the borrowed helm, her scarred lip curled into a sharp, hungry smile. 

“Call me ‘Eve’, Archon. The last I saw of this place, there’s a rift a floor up. Keep the demons off my back and I’ll close it for you. After that,” she let out a harsh bark. “I don’t care what you’re here for. But if we run into Calpernia? She’s _mine_.”

III.

The fighting was bloody but fairly one-sided, heading up: the College had been taken by surprise, and likely many of its guards were on the opposite side of the grounds, fighting Grunmar and Maevaris. But then the mages began to rally, summoning demons, making them fight for every inch of ground, and by the time they reached the Great Library, Dorian was starting to tire. He was grateful for the slog, though. Fighting left no room for grief or despair.

“Look at the mess,” Dorian said disgustedly. 

He had _loved_ the library when he was an apprentice: it had housed the rarest collection of books in Thedas, not just on magic, but on history, literature, botany and more. Now the gigantic tiers of books were dark, their magelights extinguished, and shelves upon shelves of books had been upended on the floor, trod over, as though someone had scoured the vast chamber for treasure and had destroyed everything irrelevant in a fit of petty rage. 

“Good thing we left Zaldereon on the floor below,” Felix agreed. “The old man would’ve had a _fit_.” 

“Time magic,” Eve said shortly. “They were interested in time magic.”

The Inquisitor had closed the demon-spawning rift on the floor below, much to Zaldereon’s (professional) delight, and they had left him chattering excitedly with a handful of other Vol Dorma Chairs about _implanted forma modifications_ and _thaumatic waveforms_. Eve hadn’t been interested at all: whatever privations she had suffered had narrowed down her focus, burned her to the core: all she seemed interested in now was death. She wasn’t even particularly curious about _why_ Dorian and the others actually happened to be in the College.

Most of their forces had split off to cover their retreat or slow down reinforcements: it was just Cullen and his remaining forces now, with Halward, the Inquisitor, Felix and Dorian. At a quick gesture, Cullen’s templars fanned out, as they advanced through the huge, labyrinthine chamber. 

Then Cullen held up a hand sharply, as mages flanked by Venatori militia emerged from the Quiet Room. The mage at the head raised a hand, floating a tome up from his palm - and a human girl darted out from behind a bookshelf, dressed in servant’s clothes, her face bright with a strange sort of transcendent joy. “ _Maker, though the darkness comes,_ ” she cried, “ _I embrace the light!_ ” 

The girl threw a flask on the ground as the mage turned in surprise, and Dorian nearly threw up a barrier at the sudden blast of heat, even from where they stood, the fireball blasting apart the girl, the mage, even the handful of militia around her. Other mages lay on the edge of the blast radius, groaning and charred.

“What in the Maker’s name-“ Felix began, horrified, but Cullen didn’t even blink. 

“O Creator,” Cullen said quietly, “Know her heart - you have taken from her a life of sorrow.” 

“Blessed are the righteous,” the templars behind Cullen answered, in a rumble, and Dorian shivered. Cullen answered his accusing look with an even stare. 

“You don’t think that Maevaris is the _only_ reason why we haven’t been neck deep in demons all the way up, do you? The Chantry’s spread the word.”

“All these _people_ … Maker’s breath, that girl couldn’t have been older than ten-and-eight!”

“Blessed are the righteous,” Cullen turned away, walking on to the groaning bodies, shoving his blade through the ribcage of the first, and twisting it efficiently, “For they are the lights in the shadow.”

“In their blood,” a templar beside Dorian continued, her face, through her helm, as radiant as the girl’s had been, exultant, “The Maker’s will is _written_.”

“Blessed are the righteous,” echoed the other templars, in a murmur.

Dorian sucked in a sharp breath, then stiffened as he felt a tight grip on his elbow. It was Halward, his jaw set, shaking his head sharply, and after a moment, Dorian forced himself to breathe, to relax. Yes. Now was not the time.

The year had done more than turn Cullen cold and bitter. It had twisted him too, it seemed, broken him; and this Cullen that had been recast from it was both frighteningly alien and heartbreakingly familiar. It was the Divine that the Cullen Dorian knew could become, so very easily. One as ruthless as they came. One whom, in his own way, was perhaps almost as dangerous to Tevinter as the Venatori. 

Dorian had been blind to that all this time. But yet - even so-

Beside him, Eve snorted, breaking his stunned silence. “Bloody hell. That’s the Imperial Divine, is it? Viv was right. Nice arse.” 

The sheer baldness of the statement pulled a choked, startled laugh from Dorian, and he pulled himself free from Halward’s grip, taking in a deep breath. “She really said that to you?” Dorian asked, as they trailed after Cullen, through the huge tiers of disturbed books.

“Not in so many words, but I got the gist. He’s a real piece of work. She didn’t mention that bit.” 

“He was… different before.” So Dorian had thought.

“Aye, well,” Eve’s eyes glittered from behind her helm, hard as stones. “Most of us were.” 

Another mage was waiting for them in the Reading Room, the circular chamber through which the stairwell up to the Bifurcation Laboratory lay, surrounded by a small army of rage demons, their molten limbs dripping motes of fire onto the marble. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly after all, Gereon.

“Father,” Felix said, stepping forward. “Father, it’s me. Don’t you know me? Stop this. Help us.”

Gereon’s eyes flicked over Felix’s face, and he blinked, for a long moment, then he shook his head, with a low gasp. “No. My Felix is dead. _Dead_.” 

“We were just kicked into the future, that’s all,” Felix said urgently. “I’m _alive_ , Father. But Dorian and I need help fixing all this. Resetting all this. You’re the expert in-“

“The future. Of course!” Gereon started to laugh, and it was a brittle, cackling laugh, one that made the hairs on Dorian’s arms stand on end. “The future! The future! None of this has to be real!” 

The demons surged forward, and Cullen met the first with his shield, the molten fist clanging sparks off the metal. “There’s no arguing with him!” Halward called, from where he had brought up a barrier around himself, lightning glancing off to earth itself around him. “Felix, Dorian, go! The rest of us will handle this!”

“Father-“

“If you can,” Halward grit out, as he dispelled a flash of lighting above him, “Go back to the time from which you came.” He turned his head, and for a moment, there was something of the Halward Dorian remembered, from years and years ago, when he had been a boy, the wise man whom had meant the world to him. “I’m proud of you, Dorian. _Go_.” 

Felix still hesitated, starting towards Gereon, but Dorian swallowed hard, looked away, and grabbed his wrist, and they ran for the exit, Cullen clearing their path, slamming a molten demon bodily aside with his shield, spinning on his heel to cleave its misshapen head off its body. Behind them, the templars roared a war cry, “ _The Divine! The Divine! Andraste and the Maker!_ ” and engaged the demons in a shattering crash of shields and blades. 

A despair demon whirled out of the ground, shrieking, but the Inquisitor hastily put herself between its icy blast and Dorian’s flank. “Go! Go!” Eve snapped, and they were through the archway, up the stairs, past the dwarven-forged steel doors, Cullen dragging them shut behind them-

The Bifurcation Laboratory had not been a place that Dorian remembered from his days as an apprentice. It was a dome, the glass ceiling openable, and it was now open to the sky, a line of arcane energy crackling as it danced between the Breach and Tempest, the staff sunk into a mount, nearly fully encased with red lyrium crystals. Around it, in a globe, Dorian could see time flickering, like a shaped mirage, dancing between the current time and something else, the same room, different people. He could see the strain of time itself, warping around it, the threads pulling further and further apart.

They were also alone in the Laboratory: Cullen made a quick circuit, then he narrowed his eyes at the globe. “Can it be… undone?” 

“I think so.” Dorian took a few steps closer. “Fascinating. They forcibly warped the enchantments on Tempest with the red lyrium. Corrupted them, in fact, but then leashed the backlash into a channeled-“

“Work your spell,” Cullen interrupted, tilting his head, as though listening to something that Dorian couldn’t make out. “Quickly.”

As if to punctuate his words, there was a sudden, loud crash, from the other steel door leading to the laboratory, as though something heavy outside it was trying to punch its way through. Cullen strode over to stand before it, limbering up, his shield and blade at the ready. “I’ll give you all the time you need.” 

“Cullen-“ Dorian began, his voice choked beyond recognition, but Cullen didn’t turn, his own gaze steady on the door.

“Remember what I said about a year ago, Dorian.”

Dorian started to reweave threads of time around the staff, undoing the warping, rethreading the pathways, the theorems: it felt a little like casting a haste spell, but in reverse, undoing the forced time bubble rather than creating one that set him apart, and it was delicate, slow work, especially with the bleed of the red lyrium all around them. Felix jumped when the door crashed open, a lumbering, tree-like demon shouldering through, and Dorian tried not to stare, tried not to hesitate.

Before the door, he could see Cullen’s eyes crinkle up slightly, the way he did whenever he smiled that dangerous, sharp smile of his, as he raised his shield, angled slightly down, as if to protect against a splash of acid. “Though all before me is shadow,” Cullen said, as he ducked a swipe at his head, and whirled around, angling the blade up and through the demon’s chest, then twisting back and beheading it as it stumbled. “I am sheathed by _flame_.” 

Cullen blocked an ice blast from a despair demon, then lunged over to impale an anger demon through its head, its claws skittering harmlessly up over his shield. “For though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death - I fear no evil, Maker-“ There was a cry as one of the tree-like demons burst out of a small rift under Cullen’s feet, driving a thorny claw right through Cullen’s breastplate, high on his shoulder, and it took Dorian a moment to realize that the sound had come from _him_ , not Cullen. 

“For even where the light is akin to darkness,” Cullen grit his teeth now, as he severed the claw, but stumbled back, balance shaken, staggering as another demon punched dagger-like claws through his flank, shearing through armour like butter, “I know that _you are with me!_ ”

“That’s it!” Felix cried, as the bubble started to unwind, twisting against Dorian’s leashed restrictions, against the red lyrium, against the corruption. “It’s resetting! Dorian-“

Dorian wasn’t listening - he was looking right over at Cullen, over the gulf of time unwinding around them, as the world flickered, the ground going from stone to grass and back, and Cullen seemed to sense this, with the demons frozen in place about him: he began to raise his blade, up, as though in a salute - and then he was gone.

IV.

They stumbled from one Time into another, the bubble breaking in a wave around them, rewinding, the growth of red lyrium about Tempest shrinking, people whirling about around them in streaks of light, like a flashback in triple time. Felix’s hand was tight around Dorian’s wrist, his face set, staring hard at Tempest as the spell twisted apart, the Breach in the sky above them roiling, then fading, then disappearing-

And then it was done. They stood before Tempest, a pile of red lyrium set around it, and beside it, a freckled human woman in mage robes stared at them, utterly startled. Behind her, bloodied bodies spoke clearly enough of what had just transpired, but even as Dorian blinked, staring in shock, Felix had already punched a spike of ice forward, impaling the woman through her heart. 

As she fell, gurgling and gasping, the wind of arcane energy around Tempest slowed, and then sputtered and faded, and Dorian gingerly plucked it from its nest of red lyrium. “Who the hell was that?” he demanded, blinking. “I haven’t seen her before.”

“Calpernia, I think. Fits her description.” Felix stared down at the body, his expression hard, watching as Calpernia choked and drowned in her blood and eventually lay still. “We were lucky to take her by surprise like that. Her guard was down.” Circling closer to the bodies, Felix added, "Huh. Here's Laetia. Guess Calpernia didn't differentiate between slaves and Magisters in the end."

“We’re also… probably stuck in the middle of some Venatori presence right now,” Dorian added, looking around them both. “If that was Calpernia, I don’t think she was alone. Out of the pan, into the fire.” 

Felix squinted up at the sky. “Not really. It’s in the middle of the afternoon, and the Great Library is just beneath us, remember? Father’s always there at this time of day, and I don’t think he’s had his little crisis yet. Let’s just find him, I’ll punch him in the face, hug him, then we can sort this all out.” Felix paused. “Maybe not the punching.” 

“He hasn’t deserved that yet.” Dorian agreed, exhaling heavily, then starting to shake. “Maker. Vivienne… and all that… and the girl, and _Cullen_ -“

“Hey,” Felix stepped over, patting Dorian on the back. “None of that’s happened yet, remember? Thanks to you. We’ll _make_ sure that it never happens.” 

Dorian took in another deep, shaky breath, forcing himself to put away the pain, to compartmentalise the hurt, the way he had learned, years ago, growing up, and he closed his eyes, counting to ten. “All right. Let’s go find your father.” He paused. “And mine. I think I actually might have an apology to make.”

Felix stared at him in surprise. “Andraste’s tits. The world _is_ ending.”


	17. Chapter 17

Maevaris.

“I think I have an explanation for the sudden disappearance of all the Venatori,” Maevaris said, when Dorian arrived at her repossessed ballroom office, late as usual and looking mildly disheveled. Despite Dorian rather abruptly dumping Caelestis Antias upon Maevaris as an assistant, the office was still thick with paperwork, and far too much still needed to be done.

“Do tell.” Dorian belatedly smoothed down his collar, though not quite enough to hide the reddened mark on his neck.

“When you unwound the time spell,” Maevaris hid her grin, “You must have leashed all the Venatori who were using it to speed to Tevinter in limbo. They were trapped within time, which had stopped just for them to get them here. They’ve got no way out.” 

“That’s… quite possibly a very bad thing,” Dorian said, blinking. “Because if they’re trapped in limbo, then… they could, in theory, pop out _anytime_. Any _when_ in time.”

“Assuming that they’re not frozen where they are. After all, like Zaldereon mentioned, Tempest was amplified by red lyrium to rework the _forma_ of its failsafe enchantment. Now that it’s in the sticky hands of the Chair of Pre-Blight Artefacts and the red lyrium’s been safely disposed of by Grunmar’s dwarves, I don’t think we’re in any danger of seeing the Venatori any longer.”

“… True. Maybe I’ll have Gereon look into it.” Dorian brightened up. “This is such _great_ news. If the Venatori are really gone, for good, that’s such a pain in my arse swept off the table.”

“Now you just have to solve the problem of the qunari, Tevinter, Corypheus-“

“Yes, thank you, Mae,” Dorian rolled his eyes. “The Qunari are still nicely quiet right now - I think I’ll try sending another letter to them after all this has been resolved. My Senate’s in chaos, which is nice, and I still have Erasthenes’ seat and Livius’ seat to name. And as to Corypheus, we’ve sent a warning to the Inquisition to go and prevent Empress Celene’s assassination. Hopefully they can handle everything else from their end, now.”

“Now that we don’t have the threat of repossession hanging over us,” Maevaris added, “We’ve more than doubled your war chest in assets. A quarter of that’s already been liquidated. I’m having Grunmar and Hilde carefully investigate all red lyrium sources in the Ambassadoria.”

“Red lyrium isn’t exactly illegal to the dwarves, is it?” Dorian pulled a face.

“It isn’t, but Hilde is _very_ persuasive. You should meet her someday.”

“I already have,” Dorian said automatically, then hesitated. “Maker. I’m never going to be able to stop doing that.”

Maevaris grinned, reaching over to pat Dorian’s elbow. “My dear, you survived one catastrophic spell, a trip to the future, an apocalypse, and came all the way back. A few side effects are nothing. By the way,” she added absently, “Where did you learn my nickname?”

“What nickname?”

“You called me ‘Mae’,” Maevaris said patiently, and at least saying that no longer hurt, with the ghost of Thorold now long behind her, and worlds of work to do to fill her time. 

“Oh, that.” Dorian flushed a little, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“No, it’s quite all right. I’m happy for my friends to call me that. I just… haven’t heard it in a while.”

“It was Grunmar,” Dorian recalled, after a moment. “He was referring to you by the nickname, and I think it stuck. Sorry. I’m still a little confused, some days.”

“No, dear,” Maevaris said gently, even as she smiled to herself. Grunmar, eh? “Call me ‘Mae’, by all means. It’s a name from an earlier time. A happier one.” And perhaps one that could come again - with another.

Felix.

Felix’s Little Birds were all rather astonished when their boss surprised them with an abrupt payrise, and the general word was that Felix was probably trying to ensure that they didn’t defect to the Chantry.

“Not that I think they would,” Felix told Dorian, in the middle of his normal report in the Dragon’s Roost. “Because we’re starting up a sort of friendly rivalry right now. It’s good for morale.” 

“Is it? We can’t exactly compete with the Chantry. Not with its soporati network.”

“Not every soporati is religious,” Felix shrugged. “ _My_ network’s very diverse.”

“So our… network is made up of… mages and unbelievers?”

“Well, if you want to put it that way,” Felix muttered. “You’re starting to make us sound like one of the Shadows of Dark Darkness or whatever it is that Leonthius likes to preach about. Have you spoken to him about the preaching, by the way?”

“We’ve had a talk,” Dorian said, a little evasively.

“Which obviously didn’t work, because I sneaked in to listen to his morning mass yesterday, and I’m _still_ scared.”

“It’s a work in progress,” Dorian growled. “But the Venatori are gone, at least.”

“Yes, they’re gone,” Felix said dryly, “But surprise! Now there’s no common enemy. Except, oh wait, I know! All those rich little arseholes at the top of the pile!”

“You’ve become _so_ optimistic since our little trip into the future.”

“I know. I mean, now that I’ve seen how bad it can get, I spend some nights thinking how bad it could _really_ get.” 

“I’m _working with him_ , all right?” Dorian set his quill down, looking exasperated. “We’ll build up some common ground. And once I’ve resettled the Senate, and cultivated up my power base, I’m going to push reform through. We’ve been using Maevaris’ war chest to start building infrastructure for the soporati. That’ll help endear us to the masses. Hopefully.”

Felix sighed. “That’s you, Dorian. Forever trying to see the best of things.”

“Then what? What do you want me to do?” Dorian retorted. “Throw them all out of the country? Who’ll peel our grapes, eh, and wash our feet in milk?” 

Felix rolled his eyes, and Dorian smirked. “Be _serious_ about this, Dorian. I know that we need to change things. _I_ believe that. That’s why I’m working for you. But I’m just saying. Leonthius is dangerous. And you’ve got no reassurance that he isn’t just going to use you.”

“Actually,” Dorian said, with a wry smile, “I do. So trust me in this, Felix. You’ll see. It won’t all burn down at the end.” 

“I’m fairly sure that I’ve heard that from you before.”

“How’s…” Dorian hesitated. “How’s your father?”

“Just rather bewildered at all the fuss, thank the Maker. He’s definitely clean,” Felix added hastily. “I’ve had various people check. I’ve never realized that he was _that_ attached to me,” Felix admitted. “I mean, he’s always been so sunk into his research. _Your_ father didn’t go off the rails.” 

“It’s always been obvious to _me_ ,” Dorian noted, and sounded amused. 

Felix rolled his eyes. “Especially on hindsight, I presume. He’s going to teach me chess, we’ll make it a weekly thing, and I’ll work a little less, if only to keep an eye on him at home. What about your parents?”

“Mother’s very pleased with her golden halla, wrote me two very lovely letters, actually. As to Father,” Dorian grinned. “I think I shocked a few years off his life when I hugged him at Varen’s latest soiree. Not in public, of course. But it was actually… funny. We’re still not exactly on friendly speaking terms,” Dorian added, “And he’s still a right bastard. But I think maybe things don’t have to be so… strained.” 

“Good,” Felix said, because if Gereon’s attachment to Felix had always been obvious to Dorian, Halward’s obsession with Dorian had always been obvious to Felix. And at the end, where it mattered, it probably had done Dorian good to see where his father would stand. “Now I’d better get going. Before Livia throws another spy out of a window.”

“ _Again_?”

Cullen.

In Cullen’s opinion, if the world ever ended catastrophically, Vol Dorma would most likely be at the centre of the cataclysm. In the two days since he had come by the College of Alchemy to attend the latest symposium on the Breach, he had witnessed one accidental ‘fireball escalation’ in the Rose Garden, two force magic ‘miscalculations’, one of which had blown up all the glass in the greenhouse, and one apparently alchemical-based experiment that had caused thick, stinking green clouds to pour out of White Wyvern Tower.

Small wonder the guest apartments were in a separate building with thick walls, enforced by enchantments. Cullen tugged the tip of his hood further over his eyes as he walked quietly past hurrying servants, and the occasional elven slave. With ranks and ranks of apprentices to spare, Vol Dorma didn’t lack for service staff, and Zaldereon had told Cullen quite blandly that the elves in Vol Dorma were more or less just kept around as translators. 

Slavery. The greatest blight on the Imperial conscience. Cullen scowled a little as he walked, counting the doors, until he came to the one he was looking for. The key that his scout had slipped him fit the lock, and he opened the door noiselessly, and shut it behind him. 

Even by the measure of the other guest apartments, this particular one was lavish. Rich paintings and portraits hung over the walls, and the floor under his feet was a single mural of mother of pearl, picked out in various shades, depicting the view of the Nocen Sea from Minrathous. An ornate, antique writing desk sat by one window, correspondence piled neatly to a side, and a book left half opened on the seat. The shelves of books were tidy, set close to the open balcony, where a low-backed cushioned divan was placed to enjoy the view of the Rose Garden - not that there was very much to see of it at present, even were it not the evening.

His target sat curled on the divan, deeply absorbed in a book on his lap, and Cullen crept closer, flexing his fingers, reaching out- and clapped his hands on Dorian’s shoulders.

Dorian yelped, his book jerking off his lap, and ice streaked up Cullen’s gloves for a moment before Dorian blinked up at him, scowled, and released the spell. “Maker’s _balls_ ,” he swore. “Don’t do that to a mage!” 

“Sorry,” Cullen said, if insincerely, and grinned as Dorian swatted at his hands, leaning across to pick up his book. Dorian stiffened when Cullen stilled him with a touch, tipping up his chin, and yet again, there was that strange flicker in Dorian’s eyes, that hesitation, and Dorian was pulling free, ostensibly to close the book and set it aside. 

Cullen swallowed his sigh, and circled around, seating himself on the divan at a respectful distance. “So,” he said, conversationally. “Now that we actually have some time to ourselves, maybe you should tell me what happened when you jumped forward in time.”

“I’ve already told you what happened.”

“Not all of it.” Cullen retorted, because despite the best efforts of Octavia and the others he had never quite learned subtlety in all things, and these past two months dancing around Dorian and whatever had happened to Dorian in the future had felt a lot like shadowboxing with an opponent that he could not see.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “I’ve told you everything that matters.”

“Then what’s wrong?” Cullen asked, a little frustrated. “Did I do something wrong? Now, or in the future? Why do you turn from me?”

Dorian stared at his hands, clasping and unclasping them in his lap. “Cullen… in the future, I made you a promise. That I would… try. Try to make this… make _us_ work. That I wouldn’t give up on you, even if it might be difficult.”

“Dorian-“

“But the… Maker,” Dorian exhaled heavily. “You scared me, the way you were, a year from now. And to tell you the truth, you’re actually starting to scare me, the way you are now. You have… you have so much _power_ , the way I never will. Over _people_. The way you handled that in the future? I’m afraid that it might happen anyway. Even if the Inquisition’s victorious in the Arbor Wilds on the morrow.”

Cullen stared out of the balcony, at the ashes of the Rose Garden, a wry smile starting to pull at his lips. “That’s why Tevinter has an Archon _and_ a Divine,” he said finally. “We’re meant to watch each other.” 

“I thought _I_ was meant to be the king, and _you_ a figurehead,” Dorian quipped, though his smile was a little uneven.

“The King only moves one step in any direction,” Cullen reminded Dorian wryly. “You’ve sent your Queen away. The Bishop may have more lateral movement, but the King’s the only piece that truly matters. I know that, Dorian. I’m not looking to shake the world, believe me. I just want to make it better for those in the Imperium born without magic… or with pointed ears.”

Oddly enough, Dorian didn’t start to argue, instead following Cullen’s gaze. Outside, the gardeners were starting to pick a little dispiritedly, but briskly, through the ruins. Apparently, the Rose Garden burning down was nothing new. 

“I watched you die,” Dorian said finally, then, his voice soft. “Maker. I watched you die.” 

This time, Cullen reached out, carefully, and Dorian didn’t pull back when Cullen took his right hand, clasping it in his gloved ones. After a moment, Dorian started to pull off Cullen’s gloves, his left, then, after some hesitation, his right, running the pads of his thumbs thoughtfully over the calluses on Cullen’s sword hand, shifting closer as he did so. 

“You’re not the man I met in the future,” Dorian said finally. “I know that.” 

“Good,” Cullen murmured, leaning over, brushing a kiss over Dorian’s temple, and stiffened in surprise as Dorian scrambled up, climbing into his lap to return the kiss full on his mouth, all banked passion and sweet relief, groaning when Cullen’s hands groped down to knead his pert arse. 

Dorian yelped when Cullen rose to his feet, supporting Dorian’s weight carefully, elegant fingers scrabbling over Cullen’s shoulders for a moment before fisting in the broad collar of his coat, then Dorian laughed as Cullen walked them over to the bed, a sturdy four poster, dumping Dorian over the tapestry of a quilt. 

They shed clothes with hungry urgency, kicking off boots and tearing off belts, Dorian dragging the clasps free from Cullen’s long coat and all but tearing at the laces of his shirt, Cullen’s hands trying to work out the little catches on Dorian’s tooled vest, cursing, their mouths on each other, his on Dorian’s throat, Dorian’s high on Cullen’s shoulder, their breaths growing heavy between them. 

Cullen started to shift down, once they were both bare, kissing down over the heave of Dorian’s chest, teeth latching briefly onto a nipple, then Dorian was laughing breathlessly, tugging lightly on Cullen’s hair, pulling him up for a sloppy kiss, his moustache a bristly tease against Cullen’s lip.

“Later,” Dorian breathed, groping blindly to his right, scrambling for something in the bedside cabinet, “Do that later, I just need… after all this time-“ 

A vial was pressed against Cullen’s arm, all cold glass, and Cullen had to suck in a tight breath and push a palm against his thickening cock, fighting for control. Still, he asked, tentatively, “You’re certain?” 

Dorian rolled his eyes. “As if I haven’t obviously been thinking about it _all this time_. And before you ask, yes, I’m clean.” 

“I don’t know,” Cullen teased, though he took the vial, uncorking it and tossing the stopper off the bed, “You’ve been avoiding me since you returned. It’s almost as though you met someone else.” He paused, as he got the slick fluid over his fingers, warming it up. “Did you sleep with the future version of me?”

Dorian hooked an ankle pointedly over Cullen’s hip. “If I say ‘yes’, are you going to hurry up?”

“I don’t know. I might be jealous.” Cullen obliged, however, pressing a finger into Dorian, raking his eyes over all that sleek, beautifully toned flesh as Dorian groaned and arched into his touch, taking him easily to the knuckle. 

“That makes no sense whatsover,” Dorian said breathlessly. “Give me another one.”

The second finger’s fit was tighter, but if there was any discomfort, Dorian didn’t seem to register it, his fingers curling tightly into the sheets as he squirmed down over Cullen’s fingers, lip caught in his teeth, frowning as though concentrating on a theorem; Maker, but Dorian was _beautiful_ , like a painting, a carven sculpture, any imperfections long cleaved away by an expert hand. Cullen nuzzled Dorian’s throat again, chasing his pulse, kissing the skin when Dorian gasped and bit out a groan, leaning up to swallow his cry when Cullen crooked his fingers.

“One more,” Dorian grit out, when he caught his breath, “And hurry up about it.” 

“As you wish, Archon,” Cullen said, and smirked when Dorian growled and dragged him up for a kiss that had too much teeth in it to be comfortable, but Maker, his blood burned nonetheless; Dorian in his arms was temptation beyond reason, beyond sin. He kissed Dorian for his breathless, secretive laughs, his playful little smirks, his sharp, now stuttering quips, until Dorian had nothing left to him but moans, his elegant fingers skating traceries of frost up Cullen’s shoulders. 

When Cullen finally pushed into Dorian, Dorian let out a hoarse cry of relief that Cullen knew he’d be hearing in his dreams for days to come, squirming impatiently as Cullen drove deeper, the fit too tight, too perfect, blood a roar in his ears, his stuttered gasping moans distant as though in echo. Long legs wrapped around him, urging him on, all the way until he was gloriously, finally sheathed, and then Dorian was laughing again, low and throaty and husky, his teeth catching the fleshy lobe of Cullen’s ear and tugging.

“Let’s break the bed,” Dorian whispered, and Cullen grit his teeth, his hips jerking involuntarily, but all that did was make Dorian laugh again. 

“Your… wife might object.”

“I’ll just get her another one.” Dorian pressed the heel of a foot pointedly into the small of Cullen’s back. “Unless you’re not up for it.”

“You,” Cullen growled, as he grabbed one of the plush pillows from the headboard, stuffing it under Dorian’s hips, “Are going to be limping tomorrow.”

“Promises,” Dorian teased, even if he did let out a pretty little squeal when Cullen thrust up into him, more roughly than he would’ve liked. “ _Come on_ then,” Dorian commanded, and after that, it got frenzied, one of Cullen’s hands clawed into Dorian’s shoulder, his sword hand braced under Dorian’s back, bending him against the bed, taking Dorian like a beast in heat. Dorian’s groans stuttered into laughter, again, then wails, fingers clawing stinging grooves over Cullen’s back, and Cullen could smell magic in the air, feel the press of the Fade, so close, the humming, gathering aura of Dorian’s power, prickling over his skin. It was too _much_.

Dorian choked out a laugh when Cullen’s release fractured through him, a laugh, then a curse, pulling Cullen against him, gorgeously wild-eyed and disheveled and smug even like this, and the moment Cullen caught his breath, he swung lower down the bed, mouthing wet kisses past Dorian’s belly, to his hips, inviting the pull of fingers through his hair as he swallowed Dorian down, more desperation than finesse, sucked and drank at Dorian until he was choked.

Hands scrabbled at his hair, but Cullen didn’t pull up, instead licking lazily over the mess, all of the spill, chuckling a little hoarsely as Dorian batted at him in mock irritation.

“Better?” Cullen asked Dorian, a little later, when they were curled together.

“Mm. Still thinking about that,” Dorian prodded Cullen in the shoulder. “We didn’t break the furniture. I’m disappointed.”

“There’s always a next time,” Cullen suggested, as casually as he could, but Dorian’s smile was rueful, a little sober, as he studied Cullen, knuckles rubbing up over Cullen’s jaw, already rough with stubble. 

“A promise is a promise,” Dorian murmured, and pulled Cullen down towards him.

Vivienne.

On the second day of Vivienne’s triumphant return to Minrathous, Dorian asked, during breakfast, “Do you want to be a Magister?”

“Of course not, dear,” Vivienne raised her eyebrows. “Whatever would be the point?”

Dorian fumbled his butterknife in surprise. “Well… there _is_ that _small_ matter of becoming a voice in the Senate, and becoming a power in your own right, and-“

“Darling,” Vivienne said dryly, “I already _am_ a power in my own right.” 

“Well. Ah. Of course.” Dorian muttered, and peered a little suspiciously at her over the breakfast rolls, all the way until tea was served. 

“I’m glad that all that trouble in the South didn’t take nearly as long as I thought it would,” Vivienne said, as she sipped her tea contentedly. The South had not quite figured out how to make tea as exquisite as Tevinter’s: the leaves grown on the slopes of the Hundred Pillars had a beautiful aroma to it, like the scent of winter itself. “Things are such a mess back here.”

“I rather thought everything was going quite well.” Dorian blinked.

“To you, dear. Although it wasn’t quite a disaster as I thought it would be,” Vivienne added, “And you _did_ resolve all that business of the time magic spell by yourself. Very well done, darling,” she said lightly, and watched carefully as Dorian frowned a little, at a memory that he could not shake. It was something that was haunting Dorian, that much Vivienne knew, something she had seen in his eyes when he had greeted her at the gates of Minrathous, but it was a secret that he kept to himself as yet. 

No matter. There was always Felix, if Vivienne really wanted to know. “Yes, well,” Dorian said blandly, “I’m not _entirely_ incompetent.” 

“Your parents have both scheduled meetings with me,” Vivienne continued lightly, “Your mother’s in Qarinus, your father in Vol Dorma. I presume they’re quite likely just going to discuss the matter of succession again?”

“Probably,” Dorian admitted. “Sorry.” 

“They do have a point,” Vivienne pursed her lips. “Eventually, it’s a matter that does become rather pressing, particularly since you seem to loathe all your cousins so much.”

“Vivienne, I can’t exactly… I mean, you _knew_ this when you agreed to marry me, and-“

“Do you know how dracolisks are made?” Vivienne inquired, and sipped at her tea, even as Dorian blinked, thought over it for a moment, then started to sputter. 

“ _What_. Wait. I never… _Really_?”

“It’s a cross between a wyvern and a horse, darling. However did you think it happened?” 

“All right,” Dorian said, with a tone of morbid curiosity, “So… Female horse? Female wyvern? Do I want to know? No, I don’t want to know, Maker. _Really?_ But people like Diane Vyrantus _collect_ 'purebreds', don't they?”

“Oh yes. There are 'purebreds', which are dracolisks bred from dracolisks, and 'newbreds', which are made more...creatively. To get better coloration, and such. You just have to freeze some of the male’s fluid and-“

“ _Vivienne!_ ”

“The Divine can even help, if he wants to,” Vivienne added, with another sip of her tea, and smirked to herself as Dorian choked on his. 

It was good to be back.

Dorian.

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure who was more obsessed with the pink, squalling little baby girl: Halward, or Cullen. He sat on the edge of the divan at Vivienne’s side, watching as his lover and his father crowded over the cot and both tried to pick up the child at the same time.

“Your mother sends her regards,” Vivienne told him, scanning through another congratulatory letter, propped up with a wealth of cushions and picking through a bowl of grapes. “Though she says she’d rather not have to be introduced to Artemisia until she is, and I quote, ‘past the setting-fire-to-draperies’ stage. Should I be concerned?”

“Not particularly,” Dorian said. Halward had won the battle for now, cradling the child in his arms while Cullen hovered anxiously over his shoulder. “Mother likes to exaggerate.”

“She’s never really forgiven you for destroying that opalescent gown of hers,” Halward said distractedly, as the baby clutched gleefully at his fingers. 

Vivienne pursed her lips. “ _I_ never did anything of the sort to my parents.” 

“Hopefully she takes after you, then,” Cullen suggested. “Congratulations.” 

“You’ve already said that fifteen times today,” Dorian said dryly. “This had a _nine month_ lead up, even.”

“Thank you, dear,” Vivienne told Cullen pointedly. 

“Oh, fine. Good effort,” Dorian said blandly, and Vivienne shook her head slowly at him. 

“That trick you pulled in the Senate recently won’t last longer than your lifetime without a successor. You _should_ be thankful, darling.”

“Maker,” Dorian grumbled, “You’d think that I suggested naming a goat to the Archon’s Throne or something, the way _some_ people in the Senate started carrying on about a decision to name a _publicly elected_ member of the soporati to the last seat. _Including my own father_ ,” he added, accusingly. “Seriously. We really should have banned you from the Dragon’s Roost in retaliation.” 

Halward sniffed, though he did relinquish Artemisia to Cullen under determined prodding. “Polarising the Senate, and for what? One seat does not give the soporati lasting change. Better that you concentrated on strengthening the Publicarium, or building more of your public schools.”

“Small steps,” Vivienne cut in smoothly. “And of course, token as it might be in practice, the _gesture_ has done wonders for public opinion, or so Felix’s little birds have said.”

“The Chantry appreciated it,” Cullen said, and grinned as the baby cooed. “She has your eyes, Dorian.” 

“You don’t have unlimited political capital,” Halward grumbled, and probably would have bickered on if Artemisia hadn’t abruptly decided that she wished to be fed. Halward retreated quickly, while Cullen walked over to the balcony, looking out, as Dorian helped Vivienne over to the bedchambers, and later, tucked them both abed, one to a cot, the other to the four poster, and walked back out.

It was Satinalia, and beneath them, the streets of Minrathous thronged with masked revellers and the strains of lyres and drums and singing. Cullen pressed a palm down Dorian’s spine, pulling him close, as they watched the sky darken, the furling multicoloured kites tugged through the city with the slow-moving procession, each with their tails of arcane ribbons, like miniature streaks of lightning. 

Once it was fully dark, there was a sudden anticipatory hush in the city, then a roar of applause and cheering, as from the Grand Proving Arena, a golden firework streaked up into the air, bursting into a crown of sparks, behind it streamers of its smaller, red cousins, raining glittering motes over the crowds that spun downwards, then up again, as silver butterflies.

Cullen brushed a kiss over Dorian’s cheek, and _this_ Cullen was more than a year older, more than a year wiser. On this day of masks and secrets, there were none between them, and Dorian tipped up his chin to bare his throat as Cullen kissed down over his jaw.

“Could we-“

“Probably not,” Dorian said reluctantly. “Because if I know my father, he’ll probably lurk around the Roost for an hour at best, then burst back into here to check if that baby girl is real, and not some sort of wish-induced hallucination.”

Cullen chuckled. “You’ve only yourself to blame. I think you actually managed to convince him prior to the pregnancy that House Pavus’ legacy was going to die with you. I think he’s still afraid that it’s all a dream, and he’s going to wake up.”

“House Pavus’ _magister_ legacy might still die with me. Or, at the least, pass on to one of my many annoying cousins. I don’t think Vivienne’s going to be up for a repeat attempt.” Dorian plucked a kiss from Cullen’s mouth. “Chess?”

“You haven’t gotten tired of losing?” Cullen asked, smirking. Dorian scowled at him, and they ended up setting up the glass board on the divan, Dorian sprawled precariously over the cushions with his elbows on the leather divan, Cullen perched on the other edge, both of them moving every piece back into place, with the effortless coordination of old chess partners.

“White or black?” Dorian asked, when they were done, the board flickering long shadows for a moment against the divan as another burst of golden tongues of fire lit up the sky above the Arena, the streamers shaping themselves into long-tailed birds, to another roar of approval from the crowds. 

Cullen didn’t even look over, his eyes fixed on Dorian, as though the wonders of the best efforts of the College of the Arts were nothing, as though Cullen breathed and lived little else of the world but what he had here; and he smiled his gorgeous, leonine smile. 

“Your move.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh god it's over! thanks everyone for reading! :) 
> 
> twitter: manic_intent  
> tumblr: manic-intent
> 
> \--
> 
> Some final notes: The relationship between the Circles in Tevinter and the Imperial Chantry is a little unclear in wiki. There are several Circles in Tevinter, which are pretty much prestigious schools (attending one is a privilege, not mandatory). The way I'm thinking, there are Circles, which are schools (all stages, including tertiary) and Colleges (Arts in Minrathous, Alchemy in Vol Dorma), which are effectively postgrad only, for further studies. First Enchanters cannot become part of the Magisterium, but everyone else (who is a mage) can. 
> 
> Although technically the Circles and the Imperial Chantry are the same institution, and the Grand Clerics are also Enchanters (in canon, the Imperial Divine is an Enchanter of Minrathous Circle), in practice, for the purposes of this fic, some Circles have a more religious slant (like Catholic schools IRL) - eg Minrathous and Qarinus - and some are more secular (like Vyrantium). The Grand Clerics are Enchanters from the most religiously inclined Circles. As at the start of this fic, they had chosen Cullen to be the Imperial Divine: a power shift has happened from the Imperial Templar Order being just a Circle militia to a power in their own right, which is why Circle mages are part of his power base in Minrathous. When Dorian or Gereon etc refer to 'the Chantry' in practice, they actually mean the power bloc that is the Imperial Templar Order, the Imperial Divine, the four Grand Clerics, and the four Circles which are religiously inclined.
> 
> Also, although running into Erasthenes is a Calpernia quest in game, in this AU, the Inquisitor never gets to start the quest, because Calpernia and friends are recalled to Tevinter after Corypheus' failure to recruit the mages at Redcliffe. Presumably he stays frozen in that stasis circle forever. Oh well. ;3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [empire state of mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472262) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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